Somewhere Over The Rainbow
by Lampito
Summary: Murders linked to sex conventions plus chance of ganking demons equals a job that Dean really wants to tackle. Sam isn't so sure, but Dean isn't thinking entirely with his Upstairs Brain. They can work out details later, right, because hey, sex convention! And if Cas is going to help out with the demon thing, what could possibly go wrong? Or has sexy just got scary?
1. Chapter 1

_You've probably already worked out that FFN is, at the moment, deleting random words from story Summaries, so just fill in the gaps for yourselves. It's annoying the hell out of me, because it makes me sound semi-literate..._

I know, I know, I still owe you a couple of Bonus Delete Scenes and DDD&SSS visits, but RL is being a pain, the bunnies have all gone AWOL, and my dog keeps throwing up. Srsly. I tell her not to lick the leakings from the compost bin, but will she listen, noooooo...

It was in fact behind the compost bin that I caught a glimpse of this little plot bunny. Not sure what his name is - something faaaabulous, no doubt - and he's a bit reticent, but we'll try our usual trick of getting him to dictate something, and seeing if it goes anywhere. So, for now, he's given me an opening chapter of...

**Title:** Somewhere Over The Rainbow

**Summary:** Murders mysteriously linked to a series of sex conventions + good chance of ganking demons = job that Dean is really keen to do. Sam isn't so sure, but Dean's not letting his Upstairs Brain do all the thinking. They can sort out the minor details later, right? Especially if Cas is going to help them with the demon thing. Just for a moment, Dean thinks maybe God doesn't hate him after all. But soon enough, he gets a reminder that Fate likes a good laugh at his expense as much as the next disembodied conceptual construct.

**Rating:** T. Dean + sex convention = strong possibility of language.

**Setting:** The Jimiverse, natch. Lars and Lemmy, the three-quarter Hellhound Rottweilers, are about fifteen months old, and RJ, Dean's son, is coming up for his first birthday.

**Blame:** Lies, as usual, squarely with The Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Hangers-On of the Jimiverse, who egg me on from the sidelines.

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine. If there were, the sideburns and the popped collars would be set on fire.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Dean stared at his opponent, who stared right back. A lifetime as a Hunter had taught him not to let any uncertainty or hesitation show, even if you had no idea whether what you were planning would actually work. Whatever you were going to do, act with certainty, as though you knew you were going to win…

With deliberation, and not taking his eyes away from the returned stare, he carefully placed the yellow marshmallow on the plate.

"Your move," he said.

RJ hummed thoughtfully, then placed his orange peep on the plate, closer to the rim than the yellow one. He looked up at his father, and blew a raspberry of challenge.

"Oh, a wise guy, huh?" Dean grinned at his toddler son as he picked up the plate, "Well, we'll just see about that." He put the plate in the microwave, then picked up RJ, and hit the START button.

Together they watched carefully as the plate spun. The two shapes softened, puffed, then suddenly expanded, and…

_FPLOOF_

"Ah, man!" complained Dean as the orange peep exploded first, "That's three in a row! You gotta be cheatin' somehow!" RJ waved his hands, and hooted in amusement. "Well, I'm gonna pick an orange one, this time, you can pick a different colour…"

"Hey, Dean," Sam wandered into the kitchen, "I've been looking for a connection between those murders, and… can I smell something burning?"

"You think it could be a job for us?" Dean asked, retrieving the plate from the microwave.

Sam stared at the sticky mess. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Peep Wars, Sammy," Dean grinned, "RJ is a natural, he's leading 6-3 at the moment. Little bastard is cheating for sure, I just haven't figured out how yet." RJ gave his uncle a cheerful giggle and a wave, then grabbed for a handful of the sticky remnants of the last battle.

"Don't let him eat that crap!" snapped Sam, "They're just sugar and artificial stuff! They're about as nutritionally sound as deep fried Twinkies!"

"No, they're much better than Twinkies," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "We tried those, and they don't really explode, they just kinda ooze."

"Dean," Sam began levelly, "You cannot gauge the nutritional soundness of something by whether or not it explodes in an entertaining fashion when you nuke it."

"We don't care, do we, RJ?" Dean asked his son. RJ giggled, and blew a raspberry at Sam. "But we're nothing if not inclusive. You wanna play? You put your peep on the plate, then we see which one explodes first. You can be pink, since you're such a girl."

"Does Bobby know you're doing this?" asked Sam, "Because I'm not sure that he'd approve of… oh, gross!" he caught sight of the mess in the microwave. "It's all over the microwave! Dean, that's disgusting!"

"We've heated up stuff in microwaves that were worse," Dean reminded him, "Some of the places we've stayed, I think entirely new life forms have been evolving in the microwaves."

"But this is Bobby's kitchen!" insisted Sam with a hearty Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "Stop doing that, and clean it up!"

"Geez, slave driver much?" humphed Dean. "Sorry, buddy," he addressed RJ regretfully, "But Auntie Francis has her panties in a bunch, so I guess you win."

"You're gonna have to spend the next hour scraping this shit off," surmised Sam, inspecting the gunk splattered all over the inside of the microwave.

"Nah, I'll leave it to a pro," Dean assured him. "Lemmy! Lemmy!" The three-quarter Hellhound-Rottweiler, who'd been watching proceedings from the corner of the kitchen, lifted his head, his big floppy ears pricked up in interest, and made his way to Dean, tail wagging. "Give me a hand here, Lem! Up! Up! Up!" As Dean chirped happily to the dog, Lemmy gave his Alpha a happy woof, and his ears began to twitch.

"Dean," began Sam dubiously, "What are you doing?"

"Up! Up! Up!" Dean called cheerfully.

Egged on by his Alpha, Lemmy's ears began to flap, faster and faster, taking on a businesslike hum.

"Good boy! Up here, Lem! We got peeps!"

Lemmy's ears kicked up a notch, the hum took on a purposeful tone, and the dog began to rise gently into the air, nose twitching. When he was level with the microwave, he let out a happy whuff, and began to lick out the melted marshmallow mess with enthusiasm.

"Oh, gross!" yelped Sam, "People cook food in there, Dean!"

"It's okay," Dean replied, "I know you and Bobby don't have any diseases he could catch. Well, there's always the risk that he might catch Great Big Girl from you, but he's too awesome for that, right, Lem?" Hovering in mid-air, the dog paused to wag his tail, then got on with the business of cleaning the microwave.

"Dogs can develop diabetes, you know," Sam informed in reproachfully.

"He's three-quarters Hellhound, Sam," Dean protested. "His mom was a member of the Infernal Pack, sent to tear up the most disgusting and depraved souls the human race has to offer, and his dad, well, Jimi Junior could dispose of just about any occult ordnance by swallowing it and letting it undergo contained detonation; you really think a bit of marshmallow is going to upset his Hell-bred little tummy?"

"Doc Wooley says you have to watch his weight as he grows, because he's so big, so his joints can develop properly," Sam scowled. "He's only fifteen months old, and she doesn't think he's finished growing upwards yet - he's going to be at least as big as Jimi Junior."

"He can help it if he's awesome alpha male material," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "Unlike his runt of a brother."

"Lars is closer to the normal size range for a Rottweiler," Sam defended his dog, "His developmental energies were obviously channelled into his intelligence rather than brute size. A meathead isn't any use if he's so dumb he thinks that his tail is a monster that needs to be caught and chomped."

"Yeah, if anybody ever needs Sneaky Little Asshole lessons, I know who to send 'em to," Dean snorted, "Me, I'll take a dog who can help me clean up after Peep Wars. Hey, you missed a spot, buddy."

"Dean, marshmallow is not suitable dog food!" Sam insisted. "It's not even suitable human food! Letting your dog eat that stuff amounts to negligence!"

"La!" interrupted RJ, banging cheerfully on the table, "Dada, La!"

"What is it, RJ?" Dean turned, seeing his son point to the tray of marshmallow goodies. "You want peeps for lunch? Oh, hey, I think Auntie Francis might have some sort of fainting fit it we did that, might have to make do with some spaghettios, or a PB&J…"

"Laaa!" insisted RJ, pointing again. As they watched, a peep disappeared from the tray. Dean did a double-take; a second marshmallow vanished.

"Lars!" yelled Sam, "What the hell are you doing? Knock it off!"

Lemmy's litter-brother rematerialised, licking powdered sugar from his chops, wearing the expression that he usually wore when he was caught red-handed using his invisibility trick to get into something he shouldn't: complete and utter lack of remorse.

"That's negligence that is," Dean tutted, "What would Doc Wooley say?"

"Jerk."

"What the hell's goin' on in here?" demanded Bobby as he came into the kitchen, "Can't a body get anything done without you idjits yellin' and GOD'S TITS what is that animal doing?"

"Cleaning up the microwave," replied Dean, as Lemmy licked at a particularly adhesive bit of baked on marshmallow.

"Dean and RJ have been playing Peep Wars," Sam informed him, "Again."

"If The Almighty had intended dogs to clean out microwaves, He'd have equipped them with stilts, and surface spray," Bobby frowned, "You get him down from there right now. Disgustin' creature."

"But he's not dirty, or anything!" protested Dean.

"I wasn't talkin' about the dog, boy!" Bobby shot back, "What do you think you're doin'?" Lars had taken advantage of the distraction of Bobby to snaffle another peep. "Don't let him eat that stuff, Sam, it aint fit for a dog. They can develop diabetes, just like humans who eat too much crap."

Sam let out a little humphing noise of outrage as Dean smirked and RJ chuckled.

"You can't be civilised in the house, go play outside and burn off some energy, children," instructed Bobby. "It's the artificial colourin's and preservatives in them things."

"But we haven't finished our war yet!" whined Dean, "We still got peeps to burn!"

"He hasn't finished cleaning the microwave, either," added Sam, "Lars, leave them!"

"Pepepepepe!" chirruped RJ, picking up one of the marshmallows and hurling it at Bobby.

"OUT!" bellowed Bobby, swatting at adult Winchesters and dogs alike, as Dean swept up RJ and they hustled out into the yard.

"Nice going, jerk," complained Sam, "You got us thrown out of the house!"

"It's your fault for being so prissy, bitch," sniped Dean. "Anyway, it's a nice day for it."

Lemmy snatched up a battered and well-chewed frisbee, and dialled the Big Brown Eyes up to eleven.

"Freebee!" cheered RJ; watching his father, his uncle and the dogs play frisbee was one of his favourite games.

"Frisbee, huh?" Dean grinned and took the proffered toy, "Wanna see Daddy and Lemmy kick Sammy and Lars' fluffy butts?"

"In your dreams," scoffed Sam, as Lars woofed in anticipation. With RJ in one arm, Dean flipped the frisbee away with the other hand. Lars raced after it, caught it, and brought it back to Sam.

It was, as Dean observed, a nice day for it, and they took the opportunity to do something as ordinary as flip a frisbee around in the sunshine. The dogs barked in excitement, RJ shrieked with amusement, and Dean and Sam trash-talked each other relentlessly, goofy grins plastered on their faces.

"Hey, runt, catch this!" called Dean, giving the frisbee a particularly vicious back spin. Lars dashed away after it; unfortunately, a sudden gust of wind took hold of the toy, and whipped it up into the air, where it lodged in the branches of a tree.

"Oh, crap," sighed Dean, as RJ squalled in disappointment and Lars and Lemmy danced around the tree and barked.

"No problem, bro, I'll get it," Sam called, heading for the tree.

"Sam, be careful," Dean warned him. "Maybe I should get it."

"You just stay there with RJ," Sam instructed, scrambling up the first branches, "Did you see where it went?"

It didn't take a lot of navigating: the tree was a sturdy old fir, and Dean called directions to Sam as RJ hooted encouragement. Finally, Sam stood on the right branch, clung onto the trunk, and bounced until the frisbee dropped.

"Mission accomplished, dude," Dean called, waving the retrieved item, "Now get your ginormous Sasquatch ass back down here before…"

There was the sound of green wood tearing, flannel tearing, and Winchester luck kicking in.

With a shriek that Dean would later describe as totally unmanly, Sam lost his grip, and fell through the foliage to land with an awkward thump and a series of cusswords.

RJ squealed with delight and clapped his hands as Dean rushed to his brother's side.

"Sam!" he yelped, as his baby brother sat up and winced.

"I'm okay," Sam protested, "Yeeeaaargh! At least, I'm okay, but I'm not so sure about my arm."

"What the hell's goin' on out here?" asked Bobby as he came stomping down the stairs. "God's tits, boy, your face is as white as an Alaskan hooker's hiney."

Dean handed RJ to the old Hunter, sighed, and carefully helped Sam to his feet. "Just a bit of gravity, is all," he explained, as Sam tried to offer him a wobbly smile, "I think we got a trip to the Emergency Room to make. Can you watch RJ for me?"

"Just go get him seen to," instructed Bobby, jiggling the boy, who laughed and grabbed at his hat. "We'll find some way to keep ourselves amused."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean smiled briefly. "Oh, exactly how do you know how white an Alaskan hooker's hiney is?"

"Git," growled Bobby.

"Sorry Bobby," mumbled Sam, holding his arm close as Dean bundled him carefully into the Impala, all the while keeping up the stream of snarking that was his way of dealing with worry over the idea that his baby brother was injured.

"Any time your uncle gets hurt, your Daddy puts me in mind of a bantam hen flappin' after a gosling," he confided to his practically-grandson as the car made its way out of the yard. RJ blew a raspberry of understanding. "So, looks like it's just you and me. I'm too old for frisbee, so let's go back inside."

Bobby took RJ back indoors, and paused thoughtfully at the kitchen table. He put the boy down on his booster seat, sat down next to him, and fixed him with a shrewd stare.

"So," he gruffed, selecting a yellow peep and placing it on the plate then pushing the packet towards RJ to choose his weapon, "Let's see if you're as good as your Daddy says."

* * *

So, whaddyareckon? A number of people have wondered what painkillerloopy!Sam is like in the Jimiverse. As loopy as Dean, or does he revert to five years old?

Reviews encourage plot bunnies to dictate further chapters (I think this bunny might be named Fabian, or Tarquin), because Reviews are the Peeps Exploding Entertainingly In The Microwave Of Life!


	2. Chapter 2

Fabian (yes, that's his name) the plot bunny hopped out of a tub of concrete for just long enough to thank you for your lovely carrot-flavoured reviews, and dictate the next chapter...

* * *

**Chapter Two**

A number of hours (and two more packets of Peeps) later, the Impala rumbled back into the salvage yard. Dean shepherded his baby brother carefully out of shotgun, keeping up a litany of hectoring and scolding that Bobby suspected hadn't actually paused since they'd left. Sam paused by the car, a lost expression on his face, until Dean took hold of his hand to lead him back to the house.

"So, how is the patient?" Bobby enquired, as RJ gurgled a greeting to his father and his uncle.

"Plastered, in more ways that one," humphed Dean. "They gave him something so they could poke and prod at his arm and check the bone alignment."

"Hi, Bobby!" chirped Sam. "Dean brought me home!"

"Yeah, I can see that," chuckled Bobby. "You can let go of his hand now."

"He's my big brother," Sam announced proudly, hugging Dean with his uninjured arm. "He looks after me."

"He sure does," Bobby nodded, "Now, why don't you go sit down for a spell?"

Sam shot a worried, if slightly cross-eyed, look at Dean, who sighed, and pushed his baby brother down onto a kitchen chair. "You can just sit here, bro," he said. Sam's sunny smile reappeared. "God, I hate hospitals," he muttered, "They smell funny, and they're full of sick people…"

"You liked the nurse, though," Sam interrupted slyly, "You said she was hot. He kept looking at her boobies!" he told Bobby.

"That doesn't surprise me," Bobby snorted.

"He wanted to bonk her," Sam giggled.

"Neither does that," added Bobby.

"Dean wants to bonk her, Dean wants to bonk her," sang Sam cheerfully.

"Yeah, well, since I'm gonna be looking after your loopy Sasquatch ass tonight, that is sadly not on the agenda," Dean announced glumly.

"Why don't you take the two kids," Bobby handed RJ to his father, "And keep 'em occupied while I finish pulling dinner together?"

"Do we have to look at boobies?" asked Sam plaintively. "Dean looks at boobies on the computer," he told Bobby resentfully.

"No, Sam," Dean replied with an eye roll that was almost audible, "No boobies, I promise. We can find some honey badgers."

"Yaaaaay!" cheered RJ and Sam together.

Dean headed for the living room. A few seconds later, he returned, took hold of Sam's good hand, and led him there too.

Dinner was pasta and sauce a la Singer, something that all the Winchesters enjoyed. RJ had recently been allowed to try feeding himself with a spoon at mealtimes. It quickly became apparent that in his medicated state, Sam was going to end up wearing just as much as his nephew if left to his own devices.

"I really thought I was past this stage with you," Dean huffed as he improvised a Sam-sized bib from a dish cloth. Sam gazed up at him trustingly. "You wanna feed one, Bobby?"

"I'll take the cute one," Bobby said immediately, picking up RJ's spoon and scooping up some pasta for him.

"Great," Dean sighed. "Okay, Sammy, open up, here comes the choo-choo…"

Sam scowled, and clamped his mouth shut.

"What's wrong with the choo-choo?" Dean asked in a put-upon tone. "You always liked the choo-choo."

Sam shook his head. "Airplane," he specified.

"Oh, God," Dean rolled his eyes, "Can't we just eat dinner?"

"Airplane," Sam insisted, adding a pout for good measure.

"Okay, then," Dean nodded, swooping the spoon, "Okay, here comes the airplane, open up the hangar."

"Can't hear it," Sam sniffed.

"Right, right," Dean conceded, "Plane makes a noise. Okay. Here comes the airplane," he added some propeller noises. "Open up the hangar…"

"Nuh-uh," Sam shook his head, "Jet."

Dean pulled a face that came very close to being a Sam Winchester Trademarked Bitchface™, and changed to jet noises. "Flight 666 on Dinner Airlines coming in to land," he announced, "Please make sure your mouth is in the open position."

RJ and Sam were eventually fed, after which Bobby offered to give RJ his bath and put him to bed so Dean could wrangle Sam.

"I don't wanna baaaaaaath," whined Sam when the b-word was mentioned, his face creasing as if he was about to burst into tears.

"That's okay, bro," Dean concurred, wiping sauce off Sam's anguished face with the dishcloth bib, "I don't want to give you one, so we'll just leave the whole washing thing until you can do it yourself tomorrow."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam smiled sunnily at his big brother. "You're the best big brother ever."

"True, I am awesome," Dean agreed. "And that's the one sensible thing I'm gonna get out of you for now, isn't it? I'm guessing I aint gonna get any sense out of you tonight about those murders, am I?"

Sam gave him a long look. "You just wanna know about the sex conventions," he intoned knowingly.

"Sex conventions?" echoed Dean.

"Yeah, you know," Sam went on cheerfully. "Sex conventions! Sexy sexy sex conventions! Where people get together and talk about sex!" Doing an unco-ordinated little dance in his chair, he broke into song. "Let's talk about sex, babeee, let's talk about you and meeee, let's talk about all the good things and the bad things that may beee, let's talk about sex…"

"You found a job at a sex convention?" asked Dean incredulously.

"Let's talk abooo-ut sex," Sam was still singing.

"Hey, Sam, Sammy," Dean slapped his brother's face gently, "This is important, dude, come on focus here. What's the deal with the sex conventions? Is this a job for us?"

Sam looked disappointed. "Don't you wanna talk about sex?" he asked plaintively. "You always wanna talk about sex!" He broke into his jiggling dance again, and picked up the song once more. "Let's talk about sex…"

"Sam, concentrate," Dean grabbed his brother's chin, and held his slightly cross-eyed gaze. "Just tell me about the sex conventions, and then you can talk about sex all you like," Dean assured him, "Now, think hard, Sam," he watched his little brother's face become a picture of serious concentration, "You were checking out some murders you thought might be connected. Is there a connection through these sex conventions, and is it a job for us?"

Sam scrunched his nose up in effort, as a couple of neurons waded through the pharmaceuticals in his system. "It was people who'd been to the conventions," he said, "Happy couples, and suddenly one murdered the other, or they both killed each other. And there's probably demons involved. Black eyes." He flapped his hands on the side of his face for emphasis. "People saw them staring at each other with black eyes. Black, black eyes. Nasty, scary black eyes. Ooooooo-OOOOOOO-ooooooo," he warbled, "Scary demony black eyes…"

"Dean's face broke into a huge grin. "So, you've found us a job, where we have to go to a sex convention to gank some demons?" He clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Awesome! Little brother, I love your work."

"You wanna talk about sex now?" Sam asked brightly.

Dean sighed, and chortled. "As much as I would like to, I don't think you're really in a fit state to get any benefit from it," he replied, "Because the last time your six-year-old brain asked me where babies came from, you didn't believe me."

"The man puts his penis in the lady's vagina," pronounced Sam authoritatively, eyes still slightly crossed. "It sounds gross," he added in a mutter.

"That's right," Dean nodded, trying very hard not to laugh out loud.

"How do you get it in there?" Sam demanded.

Dean suppressed a squeak of hilarity. "It's… complicated," he said finally, "It'll make more sense when you're older. Come on," he took hold of Sam's elbow and guided his little brother wobblingly upright, "Why don't we just get you up to bed now?"

"I'm not tired," Sam protested with a yawn.

"Maybe you aint, but I am," Dean chuckled, "Come on, Dr Ruth, bed time."

"Dad knows you do it," Sam said slyly as Dean steered him up the stairs.

"Does he?" commented Dean.

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded solemnly. "You did it in the car. I heard you." He looked confused.

"Well, stick your head under the pillow next time," Dean suggested, carefully manoeuvering him into the room they shared.

Sam looked confused as Dean pushed him down to sit his bed. "You sounded like you were in pain," he added. "And so did she."

"When you're older, I'll explain about squealers and screamers," Dean assured him as he pulled Sam's boots and overshirt off.

"Will you read me a story?" Sam pleaded. "Pleeeeeease?"

"Sure, squirt," Dean told him – frankly, he'd have agreed to put a bucket on his head and juggle skunks if it would help his ginormous and stoned baby bro to sleep it off.

"Will you do the voices?" pressed Sam.

"Sure thing, buddy," Dean promised.

Sam beamed hugely, and put his good arm around his brother. "I love you, Dean," he crooned.

"That's great, Sam," Dean offered him an amused smile as he pushed gently until Sam toppled over into his bed, "But just so you know, if you want to be kissed goodnight, I'm calling in the dogs."

* * *

Help encourage little Fabian! Reviews are the Delicious Pasta At The Dinner Table Of Life!

What?

Oh, all right, for the Denizens who insist upon That Sort Of Thing, Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You For Delicious Pasta At The Dinner Table Of Life.*

*If you must talk about sex, wait until everybody else has finished eating.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Dean was usually woken of a morning by Lemmy or RJ. Their preferred MO was to assault his ears: RJ often used the piercing 'Good Morning Daddy My Diaper Needs Changing' squeal, whilst Lemmy utilised the cold wet nose in the auditory canal (with or without accompanying snuffle of greeting). On really startling mornings, they went off simultaneously.

"Yeeerg!" yipped Dean, as on this morning Lemmy detonated first. He sat up, and RJ burbled amusement at his discomfiture.

'Yeah, yeah, laugh it up at Daddy's expense," he sighed, going through the ritual of Man Arising (yawn, stretch, fart, scratch groin) then picking up his son. On the other bed, Sam snored gently, and rolled over to cuddle Lars. The young dog snuggled into his Alpha, and sighed contentedly. "How about we forego the squealing this morning and leave Uncle Francis to sleep?" RJ blew a raspberry of agreement. "Good man. Hold on," he grabbed his cell with the other hand, "We'll just take a picture, because you can never have too much blackmail material." He paused thoughtfully. "You think we should draw a dick on his cast before he wakes up?"

Having changed RJ and dressed them both, he made his way down the stairs, Lemmy at his heels. Bobby was already in the kitchen, and RJ shrieked a good morning to him. Unfortunately, his mouth was right next to Dean's ear.

"Thanks, RJ," Dean winced, "It's not like I needed hearing in that ear anyway, it's the one closest to Sam when we're in the car."

"God's tits, kid," grumped Bobby, "There's some things a body don't need first thing in the morning. Busted eardrums is one o' them." He looked Dean up and down. "You look like hammered shit."

"You know how to make me feel so special," snarked Dean.

"Rough night with the kids, honey?" simpered Bobby.

"Something like that," mumbled Dean, putting RJ into his booster seat. "Sam wanted a story, and RJ woke up and wanted to listen in too, so I thought I'd kill two birds with one book – I had to read _Go The Fuck To Sleep_ twice. Then Sam wanted to hear it in Latin, which, for some reason, RJ found to be the funniest thing since Daddy cut his hand open on that engine head last week. Seriously, this kid doesn't laugh at anything as hard as he does seeing me hurt myself. What the hell is Latin for 'popcorn', anyway? Frumentum quod rumpit – they both laughed like loons at that."

"I wondered what that was all about," chuckled Bobby. "I guess 'corn that explodes' is pretty close, although the Vatican suggests 'maizae grana tosta' – toasted maize grains – as a translation."

Dean paused in his breakfast preparations. "How the hell do you know that?"

"I am a Man Of Knowledge," Bobby intoned, "It's my job to know that sort of thing."

"My next question would be, why did the Vatican feel the need to come up with a term for popcorn?" Dean went on. "I don't remember anything about popcorn in the Bible. Loaves and fishes, figs and grapes, even locusts, but not popcorn. Unless the Last Supper was more of a hoot than we've been led to believe."

"So, did you do the sound effects for explodin' corn?" asked Bobby. "Because that's what it sounded like at one point."

"No, that was for Sam's benefit," Dean sighed, pouring milk into a sippy cup for RJ, "He woke up, terrified of the tapir under his bed."

"Tapir?" echoed Bobby.

"Tapir," confirmed Dean. "When he was a kid, he saw one on a nature show on TV, and it freaked him out. Other kids have monsters under the bed; sometimes, I had an alligator. Only Sam could be afraid of the tapir under the bed."

"What were you doin' then?" asked Bobby, curious.

"What do you think?" replied Dean. "I had to crawl under the bed, like I used to, to beat the crap out of the tapir."

"That would explain it," nodded Bobby, "When I thought I heard you yellin' 'Get the fuck out from under my brother's bed, you wiggly nosed freak', I wondered what sort of dream you were havin'. Or what sort of dream I was havin'."

"How does a guy who's half Winchester and half Campbell end up such a lightweight?" Dean demanded of an uncaring universe. "How does anybody get through college and not develop some tolerance for mind-altering substances?"

"Maybe you got it all, and there wasn't any left for him," suggested Bobby.

"Anyway, after that he woke up again in pain, and needed more painkillers. I was just getting back to sleep afterwards, when trumpet trousers here," he jerked a thumb at RJ, "Had a Level Two Enfecalation Event."

"It is one of Nature's mysteries," mused Bobby, regarding RJ thoughtfully, "How somethin' that looks that cute can produce that sort of toxic waste spill."

"Anyway," Dean yawned, putting RJ's breakfast in front of him, "Sam's found us a job, but I don't know if he'll be up to it. Damned shame – demons hangin' around sex conventions, makin' happy couples murder each other. Sounds like the sort of Hunt that could use my expertise."

RJ insisted that he have a try at feeding himself, which meant that both he and Dean ended up wearing a certain amount of his breakfast. Lemmy lurked under the table, helpfully hoovering up anything that splatted onto the floor.

"This kid is an artist in the making," decided Dean, yawning again, "One day, I should give him paint instead of cereal, and put paper on the floor. I could call the results 'art', and make a fortune." He rolled his shoulders. "Crap, this getting older shit sucks."

"Tell me about it," chortled Bobby. "Look, why don't you leave Picasso here with me, and go get yourself cleaned up?" offered Bobby, "You'll feel more human for it."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean smiled tiredly.

"Don't thank me yet," Bobby gruffed, "If Sam wakes up and needs his hand held and his breakfast fed to him, you're on your own."

Dean headed back to the room he shared with Sam; his little brother was still asleep (and still cuddling his dog), so Dean took some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom.

Bobby was right, he decided, a shower with decent water pressure and hot water could make the world seem like a better place. With a sigh, and a slightly evil cackle, he squirted a generous amount of Sam's shower gel onto a flannel, and began to wash.

He thought about what a shame it was that Sam was out of action, and decided that they should do some more research on the sex conventions to see what was the nature of the demonic involvement was anyway. Which would mean they'd have to attend one of the conventions. At least one. Probably more than one. Because they'd need all the intel they could get, if they ended up having to hand the job over to someone else, yeah, so, sex conventions ahoy.

He found himself wondering what exactly happened at a sex convention.

Then he found his imagination supplying some truly intriguing suggestions.

And then, he found that Little Dean was also intrigued by the suggestions that his imagination was supplying.

With a happy sigh, he reached for Sam's shower gel again…

A short time later (as he was washing with more of Sam's shower gel) he ran a hand over his chin, and decided to shave in the shower. Carefully, he reached past the screen, because he knew that his razor – and Sam's shaving gel – were just on the edge of the vanity, and it was nice and warm and he really didn't want to get out…

"Hello, Dean."

Castiel proffered both razor and shave gel, apparently not minding that his arms were getting wet.

Dean let out a shriek at a pitch he hadn't readily hit since grade school. "Sheeeeeiiiiit!" he went, attempting to preserve what shreds of dignity he had left with the only cover available, the washcloth. "Jesus H. Christ, Cas! How many times do I have to say it? Personal! Fucking! Space!"

Castiel cocked his head in confusion. "That is not relevant here," he said finally. "I understand that you do not wish to be interrupted during Special Cuddles, wherever that takes place, but you are not actually 'fucking' anyone. Moreover, you have finished with Special Me Time – incidentally, Sam has asked you repeatedly not to utilise his toiletries when you…"

"Why are you here, Cas?" Dean interrupted through clenched teeth.

"I wished to assist you by handing your razor to you," Castiel explained, holding out said item once more, "So that you did not have to get out of the shower." He looked down at the shaving gel, and gave Dean a disappointed look.

"Yeah, yeah, thou shalt not covet thy brother's bathroom stuff," grumbled Dean, "What I mean is, why are you here at Singer Salvage? Why are you not in Heaven, but down here on Earth, sneaking up on people who are just trying to have a shower?"

"I am here to visit Bobby," Castiel replied, "I believe he may be able to assist me in identifying some Hunters who can help with interrupting a demonic scheme."

"A demonic scheme, huh?" mused Dean. "You don't want to just smite 'em? You know, it would do you good occasionally, to get out from behind the desk, and wield the ol' angel blade, get your Smitey McSmiterson on, do the Angel of the Lord and Warrior of Heaven thing. Pack a lunch, make a day of it."

"The demonic involvement includes taking measures to shield their activities from Heaven's gaze," Castiel explained. "That takes a lot of demonic power and effort. The deliberate channelling of so much diabolical energy into camouflaging their actions suggests that it is an undertaking deemed very important by a demon or demons of high rank. As such, it cannot bode well for humanity. Already, they have somehow contrived to make a number of otherwise happy and loving couples turn to murdering each other…"

"This wouldn't be the couples killing each other after they've attended the sex conventions, would it?" asked Dean.

"You know about this?" frowned Castiel.

"Oh yeah, Sam found out about it," Dean grinned, "And we were lining it up as our next job."

Castiel looked confused. "I do not understand," he said, "I did not think that you would wish to pursue this Hunt."

"What, just because Sammy's got a little boo-boo?" Dean scoffed dismissively. "It's totally the sort of Hunt that I want to tackle!" He waggled his eyebrows lewdly, then remembered that he was wearing nothing but a washcloth, and stopped.

"I would be grateful to know that you were pursuing this Hunt," Castiel conceded, "As you and your brother are some of the best Hunters humanity has ever produced."

"Well, why don't you go annoy Bobby, and I'll be down as soon as I'm finished," Dean suggested, flapping a hand at the Sheriff of Heaven. "So, shoo."

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel handed over the razor and gel, "I appreciate your willingness to assist in this matter."

"The family business," Dean grinned again, "Saving people, Hunting things, attending sex conventions, we do what we have to."

Castiel gave him another slightly dubious look, but withdrew, the slightly unfocused expression on his face suggesting that he was tuning in to someone else's thoughts.

"I shall inform Bobby that you will be downstairs shortly."

"You do that."

"I shall inform him that you have almost completed your ablutions."

"Good man."

"He is contemplating putting on a fresh pot of coffee for you."

"He's awesome that way."

"He is hoping that a shower has made you feel better."

"It was his suggestion."

"He does hold concerns for your welfare at the moment, as you had to look after your son and your brother last night."

"He's practically our father."

"I shall inform him that his suggestion was effective."

"Okaaaaaay, thanks Cas."

"I shall inform him that your shower has made you feel better."

"Uh, yeah, right."

"And that you gave that particular Special Me Time a seven out of ten…"

"CAAAAAAAAAS!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

When Dean headed down the stairs, drawn inexorably to the smell of coffee as a One Direction fan is drawn to a cardboard cutout of a twink (but with less squealing and crying), Castiel was in the kitchen, apparently having a staring match with RJ as Bobby looked on and shook his head.

"I don't understand," the angel complained, "I am doing nothing in the least entertaining, and yet at unpredictable intervals, the child apparently…"

He was cut off as RJ let out a squeal of laughter, and giggled, waving his hands at Castiel.

"It's a kid thing, Cas," Dean told him, "The longer they look at you, the funnier you get."

"So, Cas has been tellin' me about this job you an' Sam were plannin' on," Bobby commented, looking somewhat dubious.

"Given the demonic involvement and apparent diabolical importance accorded to this scheme, I have decided to take up your suggestion," Castiel ventured, as RJ giggled again. "I shall accompany you to assist you with this Hunt. I believe I would find a break from dealing with Heaven's administrative matters… welcome."

"Attaboy, Cas!" grinned Dean. "Sometimes, you gotta take some time to slow down, stop, and smite the roses."

"Are you sure you wanna take this job, son?" Bobby asked, some concern in his voice.

"Totally!" chirped Dean. "So, where's the next one of these conventions, Cas?"

The angel concentrated briefly. "It is in Boston," he answered, "In a week…"

"Well, we'll be driving," Dean stated firmly, "No need to travel by AngelAir, no matter how many bran and prune muffins inflight catering serves up, so we'll see you there in a week."

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel gave him a small smile. "Your willingness to undertake this Hunt is a measure of your calibre as a Hunter."

"I am just awesome," grinned Dean as the angel disappeared. RJ shrieked with hilarity, and clapped his hands.

"You think it's funny when he just disappears like that?" smiled Dean.

"Well, considerin' his uncle's dog can turn invisible, and his Daddy's dog can hover, it's not entirely unexpected," shrugged Bobby, "Speakin' of which…"

As they had been talking, Lemmy had made his way to the table and began to flap his ears until he rose gently into the air until he was level with RJ, whereupon he began to gently lick the remains of breakfast off the boy's face. Over the gentle hum of the dog's ears, they didn't hear Sam come stumbling down the stairs.

"Man, I feel like I've been DON'T LET HIM DO THAT!" Sam yelped in horror.

"Why not?" Dean queried. "He's had all his shots – he won't catch anything from RJ."

"Dean," Sam gave his brother a Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust), "Let me try to explain something here. RJ is not a puppy. He is a human child. He should be reared and raised by other humans, not dogs…"

"How are you feelin', Sam?" asked Bobby.

"Sore," Sam replied, indicating his cast, "But better. I had a really weird dream last night about tapirs…"

"Well, I got some great news, little bro," Dean beamed hugely, "Cas was here, and guess what? He's gonna help us out on our next job!"

"Our next job?" Sam looked bemused.

"Yeah, you know, evilly weevilly demons making happy couples murder each other," Dean waggled his eyebrows lewdly once more.

"You know about that?" asked Sam.

"Sure I know," Dean scoffed, "You told me about it last night."

"I did?" Sam looked doubtful.

"You probably don't remember, on account of not being on the same planet as the rest of us," Dean told him dismissively, "Being away in Lala Land, and all."

"And you're willing to take that job?" Sam pressed.

"Of course, Sam!" Dean reiterated. "Cas was just here – he'll be along for the ride, so you can be our laptop dancer. Do you know how to type with one hand? I'm betting you haven't had much practice at that."

"Well, if you're sure you wanna do this," Sam shrugged, "Of course I'm on board."

"Attaboy Sammy!" Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "So, in a day or two, we're headed for Boston! Sex convention, here we come!"

"Sex convention…?" suspicion bloomed in Sam's expression. "Dean, what sex convention would this be?"

"You know, the sex conventions, where demons are causing happy couples to murder each other!" Dean sounded way too happy about a job that was going to involve tackling demons. "What's not to like?"

"Uh-oh," muttered Bobby, his face clouding.

The light of comprehension dawned on Sam. "Dean," he began in a level tone, "I don't know where you've been getting your intel from, but it isn't sex conventions as such."

It was Dean's turn to look confused. "What do you mean, as such?"

"Well," Sam went on, looking like a man who would rather be running for the nearest bomb shelter, "It's not so much a sex convention, as a sexuality convention. It's a series of meetings, called 'Over The Rainbow'. It's like conferences on what it means to be gay in modern society."

* * *

Oh dear, Fabian the plot bunny is clearly intending to traumatise Dean. Sounds like sexy just got scary...

Reviews are The Soothing Stories At The Bedtime Of Life! (Bloody Daylight Saving, I can't wait six months to get back that hour of sleep...)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

In that moment, Dean couldn't decide on his preference for the homicide he would've tried - fratricide, patricide or angelicide - as his brain fried from the inside.

"Gay?" he echoed, his eyes bugging. "Gay, as in, gay people, as in, people who are gay?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam nodded warily, "Gay people, meaning people who are gay."

"We're not talking about people who are laughing and dancing and singing tra la la here, are we?" Dean went on, "We're not talking about people who feel pretty and witty and... you know..."

"No, Dean," Sam confirmed.

"We're talking about people who like people who are like those people," Dean continued.

"Yes, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, "People whose sexual preference runs to the same sex. Those exact gay people. Well, strictly speaking, it's a GLBT function, but there will be lots of gay people present."

Dean turned his accusing gaze to Bobby. "And you knew about this?"

"Course I knew," Bobby replied, "Feathers dropped in and told me while you were upstairs. Which is why I was surprised when you seemed so keen to take the job."

Dean turned on his brother. "This is totally your fault!" he accused.

"What?" Sam looked bemused. "How is this my fault? You were the one who wanted the job!"

"Because you told me it was a sex convention!" protested Dean.

"What? When?" demanded Sam.

"Last night!" Dean insisted. "You told me, the suddenly murderous previously happy couples had attended sex conventions before tryin' to off each other! And then you started singing Salt & Pepa," he added accusingly. "It was totally disturbing."

"Last night..." Sam shot Dean a Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That? ) "Dean, I don't remember much after they set my arm yesterday! I was under the influence! Non compos mentis!"

"Well, your mentis seemed pretty compos about what it meant," scowled Dean, "In fact, I'd say that your mentis wasn't just compos, it was casus belli, pericula in mora and in flagrante delicto! You told me that there were, and I quote, sexy sexy sex conventions. You lied to me, Sam!"

"I didn't lie to you!" Sam retorted, "It was the drugs talking, and you were thinking with your Downstairs Brain again! How many times do I have to explain it to you? Do your thinking with your Upstairs Brain, not your Downstairs Brain, because you don't have enough blood to run them both at once..."

"My Upstairs Brain was workin' just fine," grumped Dean, "Yours was clearly operating outside of normal parameters."

"So, what's the problem?" demanded Sam. "We go to Boston, we scope out the job, we find out what the demons are up to – it just means you may not be able to hit on as many women as you usually do."

"I think the problem here," Bobby chuckled, "Is not so much the absence of straight women, as the presence of men who like dancing and singing tra la la."

"What?" Sam rounded on Dean. "No," he scowled, "No, we are not throwing in this job before we even start just because you have some deep-seated irrational homophobic tendencies..."

"I'm not homophobic!" Dean shot back. "I don't have a problem with gay people! What any informed consenting adults do behind closed doors is their own damned business, it's just..."

"What, Dean?" huffed Sam in irritation.

"What if..." Dean swallowed, "What if somebody thinks I'm gay?"

"Then you'll be doing your job properly," Sam replied promptly, "Since we'll be undercover at this convention, it's imperative that people do believe that you're gay."

"That's not what I mean!" whined Dean, "What if, what if I, you know, what if I... get propositioned?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Sam snorted.

"I'm an attractive man, Sam," Dean declared, "False modesty sucks, dude. Seriously, what happens if I get propositioned?"

"Isn't it obvious?" shrugged Sam, "Say 'No thank you'. Even you should be able to manage that."

"Yeah, but..." Dean bit his lip, "What if I get my ass pinched?"

"Then you're entitled to slap the pincher," Sam told him, "Same as anybody who's on the receiving end of that sort of rudeness."

"Slap?" Dean blinked. "Slap? Did you just say, slap? I don't slap people, Sam! I am not so limp-wristed that all I can manage is a slap! I'll have you know, the last time a guy pinched my ass, I..."

"Yeeeees?" Bobby drew the single syllable out as he and Sam regarded Dean with raised eyebrows.

"Uh," Dean stumbled, "I mean, er, I, uh, well, I punched him, in the end."

"In the end?" pressed Sam.

"Well, er," Dean stuttered, "I, uh, first I told him I didn't bat for his team, second time I told him his rack wasn't big enough, third time, I uh, kind of punched him out."

"Look, this is not some sort of mass pick-up party," he went on, "It's a serious convention, addressing issues relating to gay people living in a community where they are a minority, and sometimes subject to discrimination. You might want to have a look at the program, there are some really interesting speakers lined up. One of Judith Butler's students will be giving a keynote address on Queer theory, and they have a law professor from Harvard talking about workplace disadvantage, and..."

"Queer theory?" Dean looked blank. "What, like, Learn To Be Gay 101? Don't you have to be gay to start with to attend?" He looked stricken. "Please tell me there isn't a lab class to go with that..."

"Dean!" snapped Sam, "These are serious academic lectures on serious subjects! This is a serious attempt to draw attention and disseminate info about discrimination against this community, and demons are hijacking it, and using it for their own ends, whatever that may be! People are dying because of those black-eyed assholes!"

"I know, Sam, it's just..." Dean sagged all over. "I just thought, you know, sex convention, hot women, pole dancing, maybe jelly wrestling..."

"We can always put you down as bi," Sam suggested, as Bobby hooted with laughter, "If you're so insecure in your masculinity that you can't stand to be in the company of gay people."

"Hey, there's nothing insecure about my masculinity!" Dean protested, "My masculinity is so secure, you could moor cruise liners to it!" He looked thoughtful. "It could be a problem, actually," he continued, "The Living Sex God emits an aura of totally straight masculine hotness – I'm bound to set off somebody's gaydar. Or, more to the point, not. These people are good at that sort of thing."

"The guy who pinched your ass was convinced," Bobby cackled.

"Yeah, well, there's always gonna be a few who just can't tell," Dean said dismissively.

"A few, huh?" asked Bobby solicitously, "Just how many times have you had your ass pinched by guys, Dean?"

"After all, you are an attractive man, bro," Sam nodded seriously, almost completely stifling his grin.

Dean's ears turned red. "I hate you," he mumbled.

"Anyway, you've told Cas that we'll take the job," Sam pointed out, "And I can't see you backing out now."

"I can just imagine the look of hurt disappointment on his face," Bobby sighed melodramatically, "He looks like a kicked puppy when he's disappointed."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean sighed in defeat, "So, we're off to a BLT convention..."

"GLBT," corrected Sam, with an eyeroll and a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean)

"...Where I will be hunting demons with my emo little brother, who can look more gay than RuPaul without even trying, and Creation's most socially inept angel," he finished glumly. "And I won't be able to look at any hot women."

"You'll be able to look," Sam assured him, "Just so long as all you do is covert looking; no ogling, no drooling, no undressing with your eyes, no Killer Smiling, no propositioning, no picking up, and definitely no rack appreciation."

"Sounds like a working definition of Hell," Dean moaned, dropping heavily into one of the kitchen chairs. Bobby put a coffee in front of him, and RJ blew a raspberry of support, and patted his father gently on the cheek. "I appreciate the thought, buddy," he smiled at his son, "But I kind of think the only tail I'll be getting on this job will be when Lemmy sits on my head while I'm asleep."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After some discussion they decided to leave RJ with Bobby, since there was demon involvement, and prepared to leave. The drive to Boston took them three days. Every evening, the Living Sex God made a point of finding female company with whom to worship at the altar of Beautiful Natural Acts. He was in a fug of depression when they hit the outskirts of Boston.

"We are now entering a sex-free zone," he moaned as they passed a sign giving directions to the city centre. "The Living Sex God must somehow veil his awesomeness and go without for fuck knows how long..."

"Dean, it's not like you're going into a monastery," Sam pointed out, "It's just for this job."

"You wouldn't understand," scoffed Dean, "You're perfectly happy for yours to fall off through disuse, but I'm not. It's like, it's like, it's like having a Ferrari, and putting it in a garage and not driving it. Not only is it bad for the car to sit idle like that, but keeping it hidden away from the general public is just criminal."

"I think you'll find that getting your 'Ferrari' out in public is what's deemed criminal," Sam replied trenchantly.

"It's a tragedy for the women of Boston, is what I'm sayin'," sighed Dean, "They're missin' out on Ferrari rides, and they don't even know it."

"Well, tonight I'll cry myself to sleep over their tragic misfortune," Sam sniffled.

"Stow it, bitch," griped Dean, "And find us somewhere to stay."

Sam located a suitable motel close enough to the convention venue, and directed Dean there. A motherly middle aged lady behind the desk checked them in.

"Are you in town for the Rainbow convention?" she asked pleasantly, "I only ask because of your license plate. We have a discount if you are."

"Yeah, we are," smiled Sam, handing over a credit card. "That'd be great," he added, giving Dean a kick in the shin as he saw his brother about to protest.

"Why did she think we're here for the convention?" Dean demanded as they took their bags into their room.

"You heard her," Sam replied, "She saw the plate. Out of state."

"Yeah," Dean went on, "But we could've just been buddies, or brothers, on a hunting trip or something."

"In Boston?" Sam shot Dean a dubious look.

"We asked for twins beds!" protested Dean. "And she still assumed we were here for the convention!"

"Why are you so antsy about it? People make that assumption about us all the time," Sam reminded him.

"Yeah, but this time, we can't tell them they're wrong," Dean complained.

"Well, just think of it as an indication of how convincing you are as a gay man," Sam suggested, with just a small hint of malice.

"It's your hair," griped Dean, "Your girly hair. And your girly clothes. And your girly music. People think you're a great big girl."

"Dean, stop bitching," Sam snapped, "Get your stuff stowed, and let Cas know where we are while I get us registered."

"Just my luck," Dean humphed dropping heavily onto the bed nearest the door, "I have to spend a job pretending to be gay, my little brother decides to be a method actor, and he's going to model himself on a pushy bottom. Fuck my life."

* * *

Please send reviews, because they make Fabian the plot bunny feel faaaaabulous!


	5. Chapter 5

I was sitting here, crying quietly into my tea about a dearth of reviews, but then Fabian suggested that everybody was probably glued to their screens, waiting for the first episode of Season Nine, so I just have to write some more and be patient. Or, failing that, write another bump and grind routine, since the stripping firemen were so popular last time...

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Dean slumped ungracefully to the floor beside his bed and prayed to Castiel, doing his best to ignore Lemmy, who was sitting on the bed and trying to poke his nose into his Alpha's ear.

"Now I kneel me down to rest  
To Castiel this prayer's addressed.  
In Boston now is where I am,  
With asshole little brother Sam,

We'll be in this run-down motel  
Until we break the demon spell  
That's on this BLT convention..."

"It's GLBT," Sam interrupted, not looking up from his laptop. Dean ignored him and continued.

"Killing couples. Did I mention,

Once the demons have all died  
I may commit yet fratricide?"

"Danael the Heavenly Senior Librarian will not be happy with that," Sam warned him, "You know she doesn't like bad language when we send p-mails, it'll be the Red Pen Of Fury for you if you're not careful..."

Lemmy interrupted by barking twice, and sharply shoving at Dean with his nose. Dean scrambled to his feet and jumped backwards as a sudden flapping noise became audible.

"Hello De-"

Castiel appeared sitting on the bed where Dean had been leaning just moments before. Lemmy wagged his tail, and gave the angel a happy bark of greeting as his brother Lars jumped onto the other side of the recent arrival. The Sheriff of Heaven was treated to a cold nose in each ear, and a lavish kiss of welcome.

"Oh, er," stuttered Castiel, his eyes momentarily crossing as he was subjected to canine affection in stereo.

"Hi Cas!" Dean chirped cheerfully. "Ready for your working holiday?"

"Yes, De-," the angel was forestalled again by puppy love. "Cease your attentions at once," he told them, frowning, "Your proximity is... uncomfortab-" the dogs renewed their affectionate efforts.

"One might almost say," Dean intoned seriously, "That they were invading your... personal space."

"Indeed." Castiel glared at the dogs. "One of your tongues just went into my vessel's mouth, and the sensation was most distur-" His eyes crossed briefly as Lars put a foot in his groin. "You have just stood on a most sensitive part of my vessel's anatomy," Cas protested, "Remove your paw immediately." He turned a confused expression to Dean. "I don't understand their compulsion to do this," he said, as Lemmy went in for first base. "Jimi Junior was also prone to undertake such inappropriate physical contact, as was his sire, Jimi Senior."

"It could be the nose thing," Sam postulated, "Jimi's bloodline have all shown they have a nose for evil shit. Maybe they just have a nose for, you know, virtuous shit as well, and they are attracted to innate goodness. After all, they are Hunters' dogs."

"Or, it could just be a dog thing," Dean grinned. "Or, possibly, somewhere, somehow, there is actually somebody called Karma who has decided to take over trying to teach you the concept of personal space, since I'm never gonna manage it..."

"Just stand up Cas," sighed Sam, "You're bigger than they are and they won't be able to reach you."

The angel did as Sam suggested, peering down at his trenchcoat. "You have left saliva and dog hair on my vessel," he noted reproachfully, shrugging to remove the offending deposits. Both the dogs made eyes at him, indicating that if he would just care to sit down once more, they would be only too happy to do the same all over again.

"It's their way of saying they love you," Dean assured him. "So, now you're here, we need a recon plan. We gotta scope the place out without tipping our hand."

"I can affect a form of camouflage analogous to that which the demons are using," Castiel informed them, "I can mute my grace, so that it will not be apparent to any demon who is not actively and determinedly looking for it."

"That's good," nodded Dean, "So, we get in there, we split up, and..."

"Attendance as individuals may not be an effective strategy," Cas interrupted.

"Whaddya mean, not effective?" asked Dean, "We gotta find out what's goin' on before we decide how to tackle it."

"Uh, what Cas means, I think," Sam began hesitantly, once more looking like a man who'd rather be heading for the storm cellar, "What Cas is getting at, is that, well, it wasn't single men who were targeted by the demons..."

The gears whirred and clicked in Dean's head and an expression of utter denial formed on his face. "No," he stated flatly, "No, absolutely not."

"It will be a necessary deception," Castiel stated.

"Are you deaf as well as clueless?" Dean yelped, "No! No way! Nuh-uh! Screw that!"

"I think he might be right, bro," Sam confirmed with a sheepish look, "All the men who've ended up murderous have been, uh, couples. So, I guess, what we gotta do is..."

"No!" shrieked Dean, his eyes widened in horror. "There are a lot of things I have had to do because of our line of work, Sam. I have worn spangly tights! I have worn a gorilla suit! I have worn a fluffy blanket with bunnies on it! Bunnies taking tea on a picnic rug, Sam! I have worn a Peter Pan costume with a tunic that wasn't big enough to cover a bee's dick! I have dressed as a panto dame, with a foundation garment I won't forget in a hurry! I have dangled naked from the roof of a church! I have hit on unhot women! I have worn feather pants, feathery flying pants, Sam, and I have crashed whilst wearing feathery flying pants! I have been spanked by the ghost of a very well educated, very pedantic and very angry Latin teacher! I have had my ass examined by a revenant with a caring bedside manner, but very cold hands! I have had my legs waxed! I have worn a slinky little number with spaghetti straps! I have worn a female werewolf! I have worn a maternity bra, Sam, and I have carried a non-existent existential pregnancy to full term! But _this_, this is too much, Sam, and I won't do it! There are _limits,_ dude! I will _not _do it! Sam, I will NOT pretend to be your boyfriend! It aint gonna happen! It's just too... weird! And creepy! And wrong! And creepy! And weird. Did I mention just how creepy that would be? And wrong? And weird?"

"Dean, we've had people make that assumption before anyway," Sam pointed out.

"I don't care, Sam!" Dean almost wailed, "That's only because of your hair, anyway! I am not going to pretend to be gay for my own brother! Jesus H. Christ, what do you think will happen when Becky reads about that in Chuck's books? Fuck, when the crazy women who like that sort of thing, who write that sort of thing, read about that? They'll all squeal so loudly they'll rip a hole in the fabric of reality! And what about Chuck? He doesn't just have to read it, he has to write it! Are you tryin' to give the poor bastard a heart attack? Are you tryin' to make him finally drink himself to death? Isn't there something in the Bible about 'Thou shalt not make an official Prophet of the Lord want to gouge his own brain out with a blunt spork'?"

"There is no such prohibition stated explicitly," Castiel interjected, "Although from the imprecation to 'Love each other as I have loved you', it may be inferred that it is desirable to avoid causing distress to a fellow human being..."

"Dean! Calm! Down!" snapped Sam. "It won't traumatise Chuck, because he'll know that it's not real! And it will only be an act, on the outside. It won't even hold a candle to the... stuff that Becky and that crowd write." He shuddered involuntarily. "I mean, seriously, some of the stuff they write would just not be possible. Not in Earth's gravitational field, anyway."

"Dean is also concerned about your welfare," Castiel noted, giving Dean his Eye Sex Stare Of Doom, "And is worried that you may not be at full capacity, with your arm being damaged."

"He's right, bro," Dean owned up, projecting a certain amount of relief, "For intel collection and research purposes maybe, but once the shit hits the demonic fan, you're not firin' on both banks."

"In which case, an obvious solution suggests itself," Castiel went on. He moved to peer at the laptop screen with a certain satisfaction. "Sam, please register Dean for the convention under a suitable counterfeit surname; and register me as Castiel Novak, his partner."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The manager of the motel where they were staying knew that it was not exactly a five-star premises, but for the price it was quite good, even though the walls did let some sound leak through from one room to the next. However, when she heard the shrill shriek from one of the rooms that the two young men from interstate had just taken as she was walking past, she made a mental note to ask them politely to turn the television if it happened again. She enjoyed horror movies herself, but that noise was almost loud enough to tear a hole in the fabric of reality.

* * *

Reviews dry my tears so that I can see the screen to write more. Srsly. Trust me, I'm a fickriter.


	6. Review-Soliciting Interlude!

**Irrelevant Interlude:**

**SPECIAL BONUS REVIEW-SOLICITING FEATURE!**

_**Preview from the upcoming production of... **_

_**FANSERVICE - THE MUSICAL!**_

_...in which all your favourite Supernatural characters will perform songs, which may seem vaguely familiar, and accompanying dance routines in a state of partial undress, for the express purpose of allowing the Denizens to ogle them..._

* * *

_House lights go down; Denizens in the audience throw popcorn at each other and the orchestra._

**Dean:** Are you insane? I am NOT going out there like this! What am I supposed to be, an extra from _Spartacus_?

**Lampito: ** Well, I was aiming for 'stripper pirates', actually.

**Sam:** Who do I have to wear this scarf on my head? It's squashing my hair!

**Castiel:** Be grateful. My costume appears to consist of very little except a scarf and a parrot. Parrots are not traditionally considered to be garments. Nor do they provide much coverage.

**Gabriel:** Did pirates wear leather shorts? Surely pirates never wore leather shorts. _He spins around on the spot._ Hey, do I have _sequins_ back there?

**Lampito:** Shut up, it's showtime.

_Jaunty music, possible of a G&S-ish nature, starts up._

**Lampito:** Right, you lot are The Chorus, the support for the bloke who sings the patter song, so get out there and be supportive.

**Dean: **Which is more than you can say for this costume...

_Curtain up. Nautical backdrop. Dean, Sam, Castiel and Gabriel are pushed out on stage, quite possibly being threatened with a pointy stick, dressed in what can only be described as 'stripper pirate' outfits. Reluctantly, they begin to dance._

**Lampito:** Come on, come on, time for your big entrance.

**Crowley: **Madam, perhaps where you come from, a senior naval officer would wear this... outfit, for a Village People music clip perhaps, what with the population being descended from criminals, but it's a bit YEEEEEEP!

_Crowley is thrown onto centre stage with a small yelp, and a bug-eyed expression of terror, in a costume consisting of a very ornate hat, plus strategically placed feathers, medals and braid. With a wary look back at the pointy stick, he begins to sing._

**Crowley:  
**Oh I am a very model of a modern reigning King Of Hell  
I've many demon enemies and lots Upstairs on Earth as well  
I've outlived Lilith, Alistair, Azazel and some other names  
And clawed my way right to the top by playing naughty demon games  
I keep the realm of Hell afloat, I run it so efficiently  
The souls arrive, the furnace burns to run it all sufficiently  
The imps and fiends who tend the racks, the demons who make crossroad deals  
I spin the toils, I oil the gears, I plot the schemes, I grease the wheels

**Chorus (apparently trying to hide behind each other):  
**He spins the toils, he oils the gears, he plots the schemes, he greases wheels

**Crowley:  
**But while I work as hard as any ruthless bastard CEO  
Do I receive the slightest thanks or kudos for my efforts? No!  
For all I get is rudeness, swearing, nasty notes and pranks as well,  
That's all the thanks you get when you're the modern reigning King Of Hell.

_Chorus dances; Crowley tries to shuffle off stage, but is urged back on with the pointy stick_

**Crowley:  
**When I was still a man alive, my life I knew would come to naught  
And it would be in poverty, so nasty brutish and quite short  
I had to get it while I could and realised I really felt  
My soul was worth a deal to get some extra length below the belt  
I screwed around for ten more years and then the Hellhounds came to claim  
The wretched soul I'd bargained with, it really was a dreadful shame  
The dragged me to The Pit where I was tortured on the rack and then  
They'd stuff my guts back in me just so they could pull them out again

**Chorus:  
**They'd stuff his guts back in him just so they could pull them out again

**Crowley:  
**As time went on, I changed and I became a demon hideous  
And realised that next to all the others I'm a genius  
And so I started scheming and I watched as my opponents fell  
And now I am a model of a modern reigning King Of Hell.

**Lampito (from the wings): **More bumping and grinding fellas!

_Eyeing the audience warily, The Chorus gyrates reluctantly. Castiel tries to get better coverage from his parrot._

**Crowley:  
**I soon became a crossroads demon, through my own hard work and graft  
And soon learned that the key to my promotion was to quickly shaft  
As many other demons as I could until I was their boss  
I made it to the Crossroads King, and found I didn't give a toss.  
As Lilith's right hand man I wielded power and I liked it fine  
And so decided that I'd take the crown of Hell and make it mine  
With Lucifer on 'study leave' I'm top dog, alpha, the Big Cheese,  
And I'll abuse the power to do what the fuck I bloody please.

**Chorus:  
**And he'll abuse the power to do what the fuck he'll bloody please.

**Crowley:  
**But still there are the Winchesters, and demon nobles who would kill  
Me outright for the fun of it, to get a happy little thrill,  
And Bobby wouldn't lift a finger, he'd just shrug and say 'Oh well' –  
I am a very miserable modern reigning King Of Hell.

**Chorus:  
**If Crowley died we'd point and laugh and think that it was really swell  
'Cause no-one gives a fuck about the modern reigning King Of Hell.

**Lampito (from the wings):** Big finish, you lot!

_Chorus perform their final dance, pull off their pirate scarves and throws them into the audience, then flee as the front row opens up with supersoakers full of chocolate sauce._

**Sam:** You really need to get back to your own reality and get a life.

**Dean: **You are a sad, sad individual.

**Lampito:** I'm not an addict, I have a disease, and I'll give the Denizens what they want for reviews.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"Dean," Sam knocked on the door again, "Dean, open the door."

He was answered with silence.

"Open the door, Dean."

"No answer.

Reining in his temper, he knocked again. "Dean, will you stop behaving like a fifteen year old girl and come out of there?"

"I'm not coming out," announced his big brother from the other side of the door, "Not until you two assholes stop double teaming me on this."

"Seriously, what sort of guy has a hissy fit and locks himself in the bathroom?" Sam snapped in frustration. "Besides a screaming drama queen," he muttered.

"Did you just call me a screaming drama queen, you long-haired girly freak?" Dean's voice rose in shrillness. "Ohhhh, tonight you die in your sleep for that..."

"I don't understand why you are so angry about this plan," Castiel sounded confused, "You are adamant that you do not wish to impersonate your brother's partner, so..."

"I sure as hell do not wish to impersonate yours!" Dean yelled.

"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "Look, there are people at risk here, Dean, people have already died, and more will if we don't do something!"

"I'm happy to do something," Dean shot back, "I'm just not happy for people to think that Cas is the something I'm doing!"

"That use of that word does not make sense," frowned the angel.

_It means, have sex,_ Sam mouthed silently. Understanding dawned on Castiel's face, and he stared briefly at the bathroom door with his most penetrating MRI Diagnosis Stare Of Doom. _Let me try,_ the angel mouthed back. They changed places at the door.

"I understand that you are distressed by the idea of being perceived as homosexual," Castiel said in a compassionate tone, "And I want you to know that your feelings are completely valid, and not to be dismissed out of hand."

There was a noticeable pause in the seething going on behind the bathroom door. "Really?"

"Really," Castiel went on in an understanding voice. "You have been brought up in a society where matters pertaining to sexuality are stigmatised, politicised, and enmeshed in complicated and sometimes contradictory messages about social taboos, and guilt. Personal identity, and issues of gender identity, are fundamental to a person's understanding of who they are. There is nothing 'wrong' or 'bad' about feeling uncomfortable about this. That does not make you hateful, or homophobic. It does not make you irrational, or silly, or a bad person, Dean."

"Yeah?" came a small doubtful query. Sam waved his arms encouragingly.

"It would only be a charade, Dean," Castiel continued, his tone reassuring, "A deception, an act, to allow us to blend into the convention and scout for demonic activity and motive. Just another impersonation, for another Hunt. We all know that it would not be real."

The door opened a crack, and Dean peered out hopefully. "Well, I guess not," he conceded. Behind the door, Sam smiled, and gave Castiel a thumbs up.

"It would not," Castiel assured Dean, "We will only pretend to be romantic partners. We need only pretend to be in love. There will be no need for anything except perhaps the most casual and passing indications of affection, with an absolute minimum of physical contact..."

There door slammed again, and there was a small sad keening noise from the bathroom.

"...If you can just challenge yourself to get past the memory of the confusing sense of lack of masculine self-worth from which you suffered as a teenager when you became aware that the physical features of your face had aspects that are considered by your society to be classically beautiful in a feminine sense..."

The noise in the bathroom sounded like a muffled sob.

"..And of course there will be absolutely no requirement at all for us to engage in acts of a sexual nature..."

Sam facepalmed as a pained ululation began behind the door, and Lemmy, hearing his Alpha in distress, trotted right through it to get to Dean. "Nice going, Mr Snakes and Ladders," he scowled at Castiel, "Next time, why don't I just give you a gun to shoot yourself in the foot?"

Castiel looked confused again. "Why would I wish to injure my vessel?" he asked.

"You don't understand 'personal space', so I guess we're not going to have much more success with 'comfort zone'," sighed Sam in a resigned fashion. He turned back to the bathroom door. "Dean, will you please come out of there so we can plan this thing like rational adults?" he pleaded.

"Bite me, bitch," Dean snarled.

"Look, you can't stay in there forever," Sam pointed out, "There's no beer, there's no snacks, and there's no cable."

Resentful muttering was faintly audible from the bathroom.

"If you come out, I'll let you pick the TV channels," Sam wheedled.

"I pick channels anyway," Dean scoffed. "I am the king of the remote, and don't you forget it."

"Okay, well, I won't bitch about what you wanna watch," added Sam. "Please, Dean, this is totally ridiculous..."

There was a faint _flap-flap_ noise behind him as Castiel disappeared, then reappeared moments later clutching Dean by the scruff of his shirt. Lemmy followed back through the door, grinning doggily.

"Hey!" Dean barked angrily, "No fair doing the angel poofing thing!"

"I am sorry, Dean," Castiel apologised, "But I believe it was justified. Sam is correct. You cannot cower in the bathroom forever."

"I wasn't cowering," Dean snarked, "I was avoiding you pervy creepers. Or you creepy perves."

"Well, there isn't a way to avoid this," Sam stated, "You gotta do this. You sure as hell won't let me troll myself as bait, so it's you and him, bro."

Dean slumped in defeat. "Yeah, yeah," he sighed. Lemmy pushed his head under his Alpha's hand and whuffed supportively. "Just so as we're clear on this, I hate you both."

"Well, situation normal, then," snorted Sam. "So, pick a surname, and I'll get you registered."

Dean looked thoughtful briefly. "I'll use Halford," he decided, glaring at Castiel, "And you owe me a prune muffin, you flying dick."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean insisted later on going out to find a bar. After being lectured on Sam about the importance of keeping the Living Sex God's light under a bushel – or, as Sam put it, 'For fuck's sake, Dean, keep it in your pants, we don't want someone to recognise you later and wonder what a gay guy was doing banging some random chick' – he took his keys and headed out, railing in a futile fashion against fate, karma, destiny, and any of those other sonsofbitches personified concepts that seemed so determined to make his life as awful as possible.

Sam slumped to the small sofa with a sigh, and scrubbed his good hand over his face. "This is gonna be a tough job," he confided to Castiel. "Dean is not gonna like doing this at all."

"And yet, he will do it," Castiel replied in a tone of great faith, "For he is the Righteous Man, and a Hunter, and he cares about saving people – he will see this Hunt completed and the demons thwarted." He paused. "Also, he holds out a faint hope that he may see some 'hot girl-on-girl action'."

"Why does that not surprise me," muttered Sam, turning back to his laptop. "I'm going through the programs of the previous conventions, trying to find out whether there were any particular symposia or discussion groups that previously targeted couples attended, anything they went to in common..." he paused and blinked in surprise when he saw Castiel sit at the small table and call forth a laptop. Sam recognised it as the one that Sam had helped him procure a number of years previously, when Castiel had become curious about the way that humans do research to acquire knowledge, and had sought to try his hand at it himself as a way of gaining insight into the human condition.

"Er, Cas," he began warily, "What are you doing?"

"I am undertaking research for this job, Sam," Castiel replied, an expression of diligent determination on his face.

"Cas," Sam went on carefully, "Remember the last time you decided to explore the human concept of 'doing research'? And the scientific method? And as your project, you decided to calculate how many children Dean has probably fathered during the long and eventful career of the Living Sex God? It didn't end well."

"This is a different type of research," Castiel told him, tapping painstakingly at the keys, "I am researching how to be gay."

Sam blinked. "Er, could you run that past me again?" he stuttered.

Castiel picked at the keys some more, then with a small grimace of annoyance just waved his hand at the screen instead. "I am researching how to be gay. Or, more accurately, I am researching how to appear gay to others." He frowned at the screen. "I do not believe that I would be... comfortable dressed like that, though," he admitted, "And I do not believe that Dean will agree to it at all." He peered at the laptop. "Would a human body not find wearing leather like that uncomfortable?"

Sam got up and wandered over to the table, where Castiel's laptop was playing some raucous footage of a Mardi Gras pride march.

"Is make up not more usually within the purview of women, in western society?" the angel asked in confusion.

"Oh, God," Sam groaned, "Cas, that's Mardi Gras. In lots of places around the world, it's like a special party for people who are not common or garden heterosexuals, and their friends, where people dress up outrageously and act out outrageously. It's kind of like a way to say, we exist, and we won't be made to feel ashamed of ourselves. It's not what you'd see every day. For most of 'em, anyway."

Castiel nodded in understanding, and waved at the screen again. The frown reappeared on his face. "That does not look either practical, or safe," he commented. "Why would he be riding on the roof of a bus rather than inside it, especially in the Australian summer climate? That much fabric billowing behind him would surely create additional drag that would worsen the vehicle's fuel economy..."

"Cas, that's just a movie," Sam sighed, as the strains of Verdi's _Sempra Libera_ from La Traviata warbled from the speakers, "About a drag queen act. I wouldn't use it as any sort of instructional device."

"I see." Castiel waved at the screen again. "I have a long list of material that has been identified as potentially offering insight into how to appear gay," he indicated.

Sam quickly scanned the list. "Judy Garland? Barbra Streisand? _Kylie Minogue?_"

"Should I not become familiar with their perfomances?" asked the angel. "Being able to mime certain songs seems to be a prerequisite to being convincing as a gay man."

"Oh, crap," Sam sat down heavily. "Look, Cas, you're not supposed to be able to tell someone is gay just by looking at them, or by what they do, or by what they like, okay? Well, yeah, some of them make a point of being out there, and if one guy has his hand on another guy's ass it's kind of obvious, but they don't actually 'look' gay. The way straight people don't actually 'look' straight, okay? People are all different. There are gay men who wear jeans and band tees, there are straight men who like pastel cardigans, or at least wear 'em to humour whichever female relative knitted them. There are gay men who are diesel mechanics and coalminers and there are straight men who are hairdressers and makeup artists. There are straight guys who like Barbra Streisand, and gay guys who like Metallica..."

"Does Dean know about that?" asked Castiel, some concern in his voice.

"He should, but if he doesn't, there's probably no need to point it out," Sam grumbled. "Look, just, you know, act as if you're Dean's close friend and confidant. Like you have a... a profound bond."

A small smile appeared on Castiel's face. "I believe that I can do that in an adequately convincing manner," he stated firmly.

"Good, that's good," Sam let out a sigh of relief. "When you have to go undercover for a job, you can pick up a lot about blending in from the people around you, if you keep your eyes and ears open. Otherwise, just be yourself as much as you can. I usually find that sticking as close to the truth as possible without giving yourself away is best – there's less chance of making mistakes, and you're more believable."

"Very well." Castiel looked at his laptop. "Perhaps instead I could assist you in looking for commonalities between the couples who were targeted by the demons."

"That'd be great, Cas," Sam smiled.

Castiel cocked his head as if listening to a radio signal only he was tuned in to. "Dean is at a second bar," he relayed, "He has had a considerable win at pool, and has decided to celebrate."

"That doesn't surprise me," grunted Sam, returning to his own laptop.

"He has decided to purchase some fried wings for the dogs," Castiel continued. The dogs, hearing someone use the w-word out loud, pricked their ears.

"They'll enjoy that," Sam nodded. "He's not doin' anything to blow our cover, is he?"

Castiel paused, then smiled. "He could easily pass for a gay man who wears a leather jacket, who likes beer, and bar snacks."

Sam looked up at Cas. "I think you're getting the hang of this."

Castiel nodded, seemingly pleased with his most recent insight into the strange and wonderful and infinitely varied tapestry of humanity. "He could be a gay man who likes loud cars, loud music, and chewing with his mouth open."

"He could indeed," chortled Sam.

"He could be a gay man who enjoys watching sport, and shouting obscenities at the screen, and hustling pool."

"You two are going to be the most convincing couple there," grinned Sam.

Castiel cocked his head again. "And right now, he could be a gay man who likes kissing women and putting his hand up their shirts..."

Sam's head sunk into his hands. "I'll kill him," he muttered.

* * *

You can read all about Castiel's foray into the concept of research in 'The Scientific Method'.

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Faaaabulous Film Clips On The YouTube Of Life! Srsly, go look up 'Priscilla Bus-Top Aria' on YouChoob if you haven't seen it. Now, Pass me that lamé, I'll be on the roof of the bus! _Follie! Follie! Delirio Vano e questro! Povero donna, sola, abbandonata, in questo popolo deserto che appellano Parigi..._


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"If nothing else, I'll say this for them," Dean said, hovering around the catering table to stuff another miniature sandwich into his mouth, "They do a great BLT. Which is probably why they're referred to as the BLT community."

"GLBT," Sam corrected him, perusing the convention program.

"Whatever," Dean nodded, his attention moving instantly to the next plate, which held mini Philly cheesesteaks. "Ohhhh, these are good too, I think maybe I judged this thing too harshly..."

"There are gay people who cannot cook at all, just as there are straight people who cannot cook at all," Castiel reminded him. "It is not possible to infer anything about a person's sexuality from their culinary skills."

"Uh, yeah, right," Dean gave Castiel a dubious sideways look. "So, where are we going?"

"Well, we got this, the mixer," Sam gestured around the large open area, where large and small groups of people were mixing, mingling and reforming around tables of refreshments, "Then just about everybody will be going to the welcoming address. There's all sorts of information given out at the first lecture, so we should probably split up and see what we can learn."

"Well, I got the whole catering sampling under control," Dean homed in on a plate of meatballs, "So you can go make with the mingling, Francis." He sighed in contentment. "It's a pity we couldn't bring the dogs – they could sniff out any demons, camouflaged or otherwise. And Lemmy would love these meatballs."

"There is a pets forum later in the convention," Castiel announced, looking at his program, "Perhaps we might attend that."

"Will there be meatballs?" asked Dean hopefully, as Sam shot him a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One) and wandered off, presumably to mingle.

"I've always had suspicions about Francis," Dean muttered conspiratorially, watching as Sam was drawn into a conversation around one of the sponsors' stalls. "It's gotta be the hair."

"He is participating in a conversation about legal matters," Castiel announced, looking around. "Most of the attendees are mixing and speaking to others. Perhaps we should do the same; we can seek indications of what the demons may be planning. It will also help us to blend in with the other participants."

"Part of the problem is that I don't actually blend in," Dean grumbled, shoving another savoury into his face, "I don't think I can do blend in. Won't they realise that I'm not blending in the moment I open my mouth? I can't talk about the sort of issues that Sam can, the way he ca-"

Dean stopped mid-sentence. Carefully, he put down the paper plate he was holding.

"Cas," he said pleasantly enough, "Cas, what are you doing?"

"I am assisting you to blend in," replied the angel.

"I see," Dean nodded thoughtfully, "And you think this is the way to do that?"

"Last night, Sam told me that this would make it obvious," Castiel replied, a small note of pride in his voice at having learned something about the subtleties of human behavioural customs.

"Well, yeah," Dean conceded, "It certainly does, I can't argue with that, but, nonetheless, Cas..."

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel was attentive.

"Take your hand off my ass, dude."

Castiel withdrew the offending hand. "Anyone who observed us will now have received the impression that we are a gay couple," he stated with satisfaction.

"That's... great, Cas," Dean sighed. "Just don't do that again without warning. In fact, don't do it again, full stop. I'd hate to ruin that carefully planted impression by turning around and giving the impression that I was trying to tear your arm off... what the hell?..."

A small media crew bustled up to the sponsor's stand where Sam was standing, and began to interview the milling attendees.

"What was that about?" he asked Sam after the crew had moved on.

"It's like convention TV," Sam explained. "Media studies students often do it. A convention like this is a great place to do a major project. They'll tape meetings and lectures, and talk to participants, and put it online so you can catch up on any sessions you miss. It will also mean that we can review footage of all sorts of stuff that happens when we're not there."

"Wow," breathed Dean, "You'd better make sure your do your hair and put your face on next time, so you look your best. It's okay, you want to wear your hair in curlers tonight, I'll understand."

Sam scowled at Dean as he checked his watch. "We still got some time before the welcoming address."

"Which means, you got time for more mingling, and I got time for more meatballs," Dean grinned. He watched avidly as a catering staff member made her way past with another tray, laden with mini hamburgers. "Oh, hey, Cas, does your vessel want any... " he looked around. "Where'd he go?"

"Just over there, bro," Sam grinned, pointing to the stand he'd been at. Castiel appeared to be in earnest conversation with two young professionals manning the desk. They smiled and handed something to him, which he appeared to receive with grave thanks before rejoining them.

"Getting into the convention spirit, Cas?" asked Dean.

The angels face was thoughtful. "They are junior employees, of a law firm," he told them, "They offer legal assistance to people who are experiencing legal difficulties, harassment or discrimination stemming from issues involving their sexuality. They do a lot of this work pro bono, as some of these people are already disadvantaged members of society, and such injustice angers them." He smiled a little. "It is gratifying to know that there are some humans who take to heart my Father's instructions regarding compassion for others."

"Yeah, well, some of us aint all that bad," Dean grinned. "Even baby lawyers. Don't worry, they'll probably grow out of it..."

"Whatcha got there, Cas?" asked Sam.

"Castiel looked down at the items in his hands. "They gave me gifts," he intoned. "I did not ask for them, but they gave them to me, just for talking to them." He held up the pen and the small sticky note pad. "They gave me useful items, and wished me a happy convention."

"Convention freebies," Sam sighed in recollection. "Seeing how much stuff you could get was one of the few small amusements students could have, trying to get to as many booths as possible, entering all the competitions, doing the surveys, trying to win stuff..."

"It's just mass produced promo crap, Cas," Dean told the angel.

"These notes can be used to write reminders, and stick them to surfaces, and reposition them," Castiel said. "They are practical items."

"You can use them to write yourself a reminder to keep your hands to yourself, then," snorted Dean. "Come on, let's go check out those mini hamburgers."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The main auditorium was enormous, and those who couldn't fit into it watched on screens rigged outside in the foyer space. There was the welcome, and the housekeeping announcements that began any conference session, then the speaker began an exposition on the topic of the history of homosexuality and its social standing from ancient times to present societies that thought of themselves as modern and educated.

Never one to sit still willingly at the best of times, Dean found himself fidgeting, and glanced around the auditorium, noting sadly how many hot women there were that he would not be able to approach. Castiel listened intently, and Sam was taking copious notes. He shuffled in his seat, trying to get comfortable, and made himself listen, or at least look like he was listening. Finally, when he was wondering whether texting a bomb threat to the organisers might be a worthwhile exercise before his ass went completely numb, the speaker finished up to thunderous applause, and questions were called for.

"Did Spartans really do that?" he asked Cas, when the audience finally spilled back out of the auditorium, "I thought they were supposed to be the most fearsome fighters Ancient Greece produced."

"They were," the angel replied, "What would today be called pedophilia was considered mentoring, and homosexuality was the social norm for unmarried men. Many brides shaved their heads on their wedding nights, as it was believed that presenting a boylike appearance would result in a man performing heterosexual intercourse with more enthusiasm."

"While the unmarried women had to make do with girl-on-girl action," Dean nodded. "I guess if I'd been with nothing but guys, then I was sent out to fight, I'd probably be pretty damned ferocious too." He looked around. "I can smell coffee. If we're goin' to be sitting through stuff like that, I'm gonna need a double shot at least."

"Sam has identified some sessions that were attended by lots of the previously targeted couples," Castiel brandished the program booklet, "And suggested that we attend them."

Dean took the booklet. "Let's see... 'Gay and Godly – Religion and Discrimination', 'Hype, Snipe and Stereotype – GLBT in the media', and, what's this... 'Couples Communications'..." he considered the last one thoughtfully. "Hmmmmm, I wonder if they could teach you the concept of 'personal space'... Cas?..."

He turned around to see the angel once more in earnest conversation, this time with a young man at a stall advertising accountancy services. The man smiled, shook Castiel's hand, and handed over something. Castiel thanked him solemnly.

"Looking for a change of career?" asked Dean wryly, "Since you got the outfit already."

"His firm offers to assist people in managing their financial affairs lawfully, paying their taxes, for the good of the wider society, whilst ensuring that they are aware of various entitlements they may have," Castiel relayed. "They encourage their clients to make tax-deductible donations to medical research." He held up a small item. "He gave me this. It is called a stress toy. It is fashioned in the shape of the morbillivirus that is the causative agent of measles." He handed it over to Dean for inspection. It was red, and had large wistful eyes painted on. "You use it to divert nervous energy when you are stressed."

"That's... great, Cas," Dean managed, trying to decide whether a wistful-looking virus was cute or creepy.

"I was not aware that the giving of gifts was a custom of events such as these," Castiel marvelled. "Generosity is a sentiment of which I am sure my Father would approve."

"It's promotional stuff, Cas," Dean tried to explain, "It's to try to get you to use the businesses that are giving them to you... Sam," he turned as his brother came up behind him, "Explain to Cas that trade giveaways aren't exactly gifts, they're like a form of advertising... where'd he go?"

"Er," said Sam, indicating where Castiel had wandered over to another stall. They watched as a young lady smiled, and engaged him in conversation. After a few moments she handed over a bright blue plastic water bottle.

Dean sighed. "Just my luck," he muttered, "I'm stuck at a BLT convention..."

"GLBT," Sam corrected automatically.

"Whatever, I'm stuck at this conference with Creation's most clueless angel posing as my partner, and he's turned into some sort of junk collector."

"He's actually blending right in," Sam observed, "The booths are generating a lot of interest. You should go talk to some of 'em, blend in along with Cas. Get your own stress toys."

"I think by the end of this job I might need 'em," Dean griped.

"Of course, if you just can't bring yourself to mingle, you could always get Cas to grab your ass again."

"Shut up, bitch."

* * *

What do you think of those GIANTMicrobes™ fluffy toys – cute, or creepy? If you've never seen them, go and look them up. I think they're adorable! Rhinovirus is my favourite, although Shigella looks pretty groovy with his shag pile fringe of flagellae, and somebody at the other end of the corridor has a cuddly neuron on her desk that I keep trying to abduct (unsuccessfully, since she knows who the culprit is). Last February my husband gave me a little heart-shaped gift box set of herpes, chlamydia, HPV and syphilis, along with a wonderfully fluffy penicillin, so when people asked me what he gave me for Valentines' Day, I could say, oh, a whole bunch of STIs...

Reviews are the Wonderful Free Freebies That You Get Free And For Nothing At The Conferences Of Life Gratis And For Free!


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"Well, that's been two hours of my life that I'll never get back," grumbled Dean, as he and Castiel filed out of the second session they'd attended for the afternoon.

"I found it intriguing," commented Castiel, looking thoughtful, "Humanity has an as astonishing capacity to complicate an issue. Especially once legal institutions become involved."

"Is it just me," Dean replied, "Or is it kind of sad that they spent at least as much time talking about what happens when a legally recognised relationship breaks down as they did about campaigning for being allowed to get hitched if they want?"

"It is an unfortunate aspect of modern humanity," Castiel noted sadly, "But it is probably prudent to discuss and determine such things before they occur, rather than deal with them piecemeal after the fact."

"Beats me why there's so much opposition to it," Dean mused, "I may not have payed a lot of attention in physics when I was at school, but I'm pretty sure that it's letting radioactive atoms get together that destroys the world, not gay people. They wanna get married, it's their business. Demons I get; humans, they're just plain nuts. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you've picked anything up on the demon detector?"

"Not so far," Castiel answered. "However, recall that the demons are using a lot of diabolical power to camouflage themselves, and I am keeping my grace muted to minimise the likelihood of being detected as an angel."

"Well, it's only the first day," Dean shrugged, looking around for his brother. "I wonder how Sam got on with his weird theory..."

"He was attending a seminar on Queer Theory," Castiel corrected him.

"Whatever. Oh, hey," Dean broke into a radiant smile as he noticed that the caterers had been busy again, "If you want to blend in, it's probably a good idea to stuff your face like everybody else, so..." He turned around and noted, with a certain air of resignation, that Castiel had been drawn to another colourfully decorated convention stand. Whilst Dean availed himself of the refreshments, the angel spent several minutes in conversation with the stall's attendants, after which they smilingly handed him a bag, which he received with a serious mien.

"Do I even want to know?" he asked when the Sheriff of Heaven rejoined him.

"The call themselves the Q Store," Castiel informed him, "They represent a number of services and resources for people who are confused, questioning, or wrestling with their sexuality, or anyone who would like to talk about such issues but do not feel that they can do so with anyone they know."

"Okaaaaay," replied Dean, "Well, you're doin' a real good job of looking like you're takin' and interest in the whole scene, so, well done."

"They were most sincere in their desire to assist anyone with questions," Castiel went on. "For example, I asked them why it might be that you are constantly interested in sex, and seek to have it as often as possible."

"You... what?" Dean did a double take.

"It is something that I have wondered about," Castiel confided, "But I have never felt able to ask you about it, other than getting a glib reply about you being the Living Sex God." He gave Dean a faintly reproachful look. "Which is probably an infringement of the Second Commandment," he added.

Dean gawped at Castiel. "And, uh," he stuttered, "What, what did they say?"

"The young lady is a practising psychologist," Castiel informed him, "And said that a high desire to have sex could have a number of origins – low self-worth, a need to feel valued, a desire to prove oneself, an attention-seeking behaviour – or, it can just be the result of a robust libido in a healthy relationship."

"Oh. Um. Uh, that's... that's... that's... interesting," Dean managed.

"She said that it is not necessarily a problem," Castiel continued, "And asked me whether I found it to be in any way upsetting or distressing."

"And, uh, what did you say to that?" asked Dean, not sure if he really wanted to know."

"I told her that I did not," the angel replied, "And that I was perfectly contented with our relationship as it is, and hope it will continue thus for a very long time."

"Oh, God," squeaked Dean, glancing over at the stall. The woman in question gave them a smile and a wave. "What did she say to that?"

"She laughed, and suggested that I just enjoy it," Castiel replied. "And the young man gave me this," he indicated the bag, "And said 'Saints preserve us from bossy bottoms, huh?', although I didn't understand that reference. However, I did not ask about it, as I did not wish to risk compromising our cover."

With a small keening noise, Dean looked at the bag. It had CONVENTION SURVIVAL KIT printed on it.

"They are giving away practical items," Castiel told him, "For people to use during the convention. They are providing bottled water, and writing materials, and vouchers for the coffee stands, snack bars, and even a hangover kit consisting of paracetamol, an electrolyte tablet and breath mints, plus items that they said were required for what they called 'after dark activities'..."

"Hey guys," Sam came up behind them, "How was your talk on same sex marriage and civil unions? Did they discuss much about the social and legal nuances of the differences?"

"It was most interesting," Castiel replied, "Although I had to nudge Dean a few times when he began to fall asleep."

"I wasn't asleep!" protested Dean, "I was just resting my eyes!"

"In that case," Castiel went on, "For the rest of this convention, I suggest that you snore with your eyes open, for appearances' sake."

"Nothing on the demon detection front so far," Dean glared at the angel, "What about you?"

"Nothing obvious," Sam shrugged, "But it's only the first day yet. What you got there, Cas?"

"It is my 'survival kit' for the convention," Castiel explained, handing the bag over for Sam to examine, "Containing items that may prove useful through the event. Perhaps you could procure one for yourself."

"Er," stammered Sam, finding a pair of fluffy handcuffs in the bag, "What are these for?"

"They are one of the items provided for 'after dark activities'," Castiel replied, "One of the young men seemed to think I might find that item useful in my interactions with Dean." The angel cocked his head in curiosity, and stared earnestly at Sam. "Although his terminology is not something I am familiar with; Sam, what is a 'bossy bottom'?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They drove back to their motel, picking up take out on the way back, with Dean brooding murderously in silence.

"I am sorry, Dean," Castiel said sincerely, "I was merely curious as to what the term meant."

"It's okay, Cas," Dean muttered through clenched teeth, "Now you know, you never need to ask again."

"Of course." The angel paused thoughtfully. "I have heard the word 'bossy' used before, to describe someone who is overbearing and offensively self-assured, and I have heard it used in the expressions 'bossy britches', or 'too big for one's britches', to indicate a person who has the quality of bossiness. Likewise, I am familiar with the use of the word 'bottom' to mean the lowest part or level of something, or the underside of something, or even in physics, geography or nautical terminology. There is also the anatomical use of the word; perhaps it is from this usage that the context of a bossy bottom derives, seeing as it is apparently used in this community to refer to someone who..."

"Like I said," Dean snapped, "You never need to ask again. You never need to talk about it, or use it, or even think about it, ever again." He shot a searing glare at Sam. "And don't you ever, ever, _ever_ explain the meaning of a word to him ever again."

"What?" asked Sam plaintively, "He asked a valid question, and I gave him a simple answer!"

"It is important that I understand the terminology that conference-goers use," Castiel supported him, "So that I do not use any vocabulary incorrectly, or otherwise allow my ignorance to give our charade away."

"What the hell would they know, anyway," Dean demanded. "What the hell would make them think I was a bottom? They didn't even meet me!"

"They did see you," Castiel pointed out.

"You can't tell just by looking at someone!" yelped Dean. "Can you? You can't! Well, unless it's Mardi Gras time, and there's, like, harnesses and collars and leads and stuff, that makes it kind of obvious, yeah, but..." he trailed off into irritated silence.

"Maybe it's nothing to do with you," Sam suggested, "Maybe it's just Cas. You know, he's got that I-Am-An-Angel-Of-The-Lord-A-Warrior-Of-Heaven thing he does, with the stare, and the voice, he's kind of an old soul, used to wielding power, and smiting, and stuff, and that does leak through when he talks. So, maybe it's just that Cas kind of comes across as, you know, a top, which makes you, er..." he trailed into silence under Dean's withering glare. "Well, you are bossy," he pointed out defensively.

"At no point was it my intention to convey anything that might make you uncomfortable about our supposed relationship," Castiel apologised."

"Cas, just pretending to be in a supposed relationship with you is making me uncomfortable," whined Dean.

"Nonetheless, if you have any suggestions as to how I could alter my behaviour or appearance such that it is more likely to suggest to people that when we have sex, you are the one who..."

"GYAAAAAAAARGH!" yodelled Dean, as Sam let out a poorly stifled squeak of laughter.

"There was a stand selling t-shirts," Castiel went on, "With various messages printed on them. Perhaps I could procure one reading 'I'm His Bitch', as I understand the term 'bitch' is used thus to mean..."

"Caaaas!" yelped Dean.

"Or perhaps, since you are always threatening to put a bell on my collar," the angel continued, "We could purchase an actual collar for me, and you could put not only a bell, but a leash on it, and then..."

"No!" barked Dean, "You are not wearing any printed shirts or collars! End of discussion!"

"Very well," nodded Castiel. "Dean, would it help if I put my hand on your ass again?"

"NO!"

"Would it help if you put your hand on my ass?"

"_NO!"_

"See? He is bossy," howled Sam, shaking with laughter.

"I hate you both so much," muttered Dean.

They made it back to the room without Dean actually attempting to kill either of them, and after they'd eaten, Dean announced his intention to go find a bar, and drink too much, and hopefully managed to forget, for just a short time, that he knew either of them, and left with a slam of the door.

"Well, since your boyfriend's had a hissy fit, looks like it's just us," Sam noted.

"Perhaps we can continue to look for connections between the couples that were targeted at previous conventions," suggested Castiel.

"Okay," Sam nodded, eyeing Castiel's haul of giveaways curiously, "You're really getting into the whole conference gig, aren't you?" He peered at one particular bag. "So, what's in your survival kit? Apart from novelty items to help you keep your unruly boyfriend in line."

Castiel upended the bag onto the bed. "Many useful items," he replied. Lemmy and Lars, who had been licking out a pizza box, came trotting over to nose curiously through whatever interesting things the human and the angel were sifting through.

"Looks like it," Sam agreed, "Bottled water, snacks – Lemmy, get your schnozz away from that, chocolate is not good for dogs of any kind, even Hellhounds – maybe some Red Bull or No-Doze would've been helpful for Dean... Lars, that's a pen, don't eat it! Give! Give! Come on, you know this command, Give! Oh, why are you obsessed with eating things that go click?... fluffy handcuffs, heh heh... oh, and of course, condoms, in three different flavours, and lube. Well, I suppose safe sex should be a major theme of the convention, what with a resurgence of certain STIs over the last decade in the wider population, not just the GLBT community, and resistance developing to previous antibiotics of choice..."

As he spoke, Lemmy ceased his efforts to wrap his practically prehensile tongue around the snack bar, and sniffed at one of the small square packets. He let out a low, rumbling growl. His brother Lars abruptly dropped the pen, and sniffed at the condom too. He let out a growl of his own.

"What the fuck?" mused Sam, mystified, as the dogs stared at the small packet, hackles rising and eyes glowing like banked coals.

"Let me see that," commanded Castiel, and both dogs fell back, letting him pick up the packet. He turned it over, and scowled.

It was tiny, almost invisible; only a Hunter, or a canine nose, would be able to detect the barely-there dot of sulphur on the packet.

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Spluttering Adorably In Outrage At The Contents Of The Survival Kit Of Life!


	10. Chapter 9

_If anybody is wondering why they're not getting any updates, FFN alerts are still fritzy - young Fabian is whispering away at this story, so don't despair, he's still here. Meanwhile, my laptop has been infected with a nasty browser hijacker, so I'm trying to sort that out (not easy when you're as much of an e-tard as I am), and the Shepherd needed surgery to remove a growth on her face. Oh, and apparently most of New South Wales has burned down. It just gets better and better, doesn't it..._

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Dean was no stranger to waking up a bit seedy after finding a bar the night before; he woke up with hangovers the way other people woke up with bed hair. He grimaced as Sam moved around the room.

"Nrrrrrrg," he mumbled, burrowing into the covers, "What time is it?"

"We got plenty of time yet, bro," Sam told him, "I just wanna check some stuff before we go. How was your bar?"

"Crowded," replied Dean, "And I got hit on a number of times."

Sam scowled at the lump in his brother's bed. "I hope you didn't blow our cover," he warned.

"Not by women," Dean almost wailed. "The place was packed with BLT conventioneers."

"GLBT," Sam corrected. "You could swap your ring onto your left hand. That might give people pause."

The sad whining noise from under the bedclothes suggested that Dean couldn't decide what was worse, being hit on by gay men, or appearing to be married to Castiel.

"It's just a suggestion," Sam shrugged.

"Well, here's a better one," the lump under the blankets grumped, "Go get me coffee, bitch."

"Go get your own coffee," Sam replied serenely. "I'm your brother, not your wife. Oh, wait, aren't you Castiel's..."

"Shut up," Dean groaned. "Sam, I need coffee for medicinal purposes. I need it the way a diabetic needs insulin, or a rock star needs cocaine, or a Jersey Shore duckface needs fake tan."

"You remember what Dad used to say about self-inflicted incapacitation?" Sam reminded him. "In the Armed Forces, it's a chargeable offence."

"This is the thanks I get," came the muffled complaint from under the covers, "After all I've done for you, you won't get me the vital medication I need to survive. I saved you from fiery death as a baby, looked out for your skinny little bully-attracting ass at school, I stole your first scientific calculator for you, I hustle pool and scam credit cards to keep you in salad, pastel shirts and shampoo, and this is the thanks I get from my ungrateful baby bro. I get more gratitude from Lemmy." He curled up again, feeling the reassuring weight against his leg where Lemmy liked to snooze against his Alpha. "At least somebody cares about me," he griped resentfully, reaching out from his nest of bedding to pat his dog.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel as Dean's hand made contact with his pants leg, "Of course I care about you."

In less than a second, Dean went from snug as a bug in a rug to upright uptight fight or flight shrieking in fright.

"YEEEEEEEE!" he howled, eyes bugging. "Jesus, Cas, you fucking creeper! Do I have to try another language? Personal! Fucking! Space!" He whirled on Sam. "Hey, Francis, what's Swahili for Personal Fucking Space?"

"I'll get right on it," Sam announced diligently. He turned an earnest expression of enquiry to his big brother. "By that, do you mean, 'Personal Space' as an emphatic expression of demand, or 'A space where one may fuck personally, without interruption'?"

"I hate you both so much," Dean grumbled. "What are you doin' letting Mr Creeper McCreeperson creep on my bed like that?" he demanded of Lemmy, who trotted over to give him a good morning kiss, "You're meant to protect me!"

"Perhaps he did not believe that you were under any threat," Castiel suggested.

Dean sighed, and sat down heavily on his bed. "What are you doin' here this early, Cas?" he asked with a wince.

"I have taken the liberty of preparing the items from the hangover kit for you," the angel replied, holding out the paracetamol and a cup of water in which the electrolyte tablet fizzed. "I was waiting for you to wake up."

"Thanks, I think," Dean drooped, accepting the pills and drink. "I don't suppose you got any coffee along with your freebies?" he asked wistfully.

"There is a voucher redeemable at one of the conference stands," Castiel told him, waving a hand and calling forth a cup of Dean's preferred brew, "But perhaps this will suffice for now."

Dean fell upon the cup with an inarticulate little noise of gratitude. "Ohhhhh," he sniffed deeply, "Cas, dude, if you were a hot chick right now I'd kiss you."

Sam looked up at the angel. "So, all we had to do to get him to be convincing as your partner was have you give him coffee," he marvelled. "Who knew?"

"Shut up, bitch," griped Dean, sipping the dark brew. "You're just jealous because you don't have a barista angel to have a profound bond with."

"I recognise that you need coffee to get your thought processes functioning after a night of drinking," Castiel's voice held just a hint of reproach, "And we have identified our first indication of demonic activity."

"Demonic condoms," confirmed Sam, handing over the packet for Dean to see the speck of sulphur. "The dogs went nuts at it."

"Whoa," intoned Dean, "That's seriously evil." He inspected the packet. "What are demons doing messing with rubbers?" he asked. "Are they, like, pokin' holes in them?"

"That would be more Catholic than demonic," Sam opined.

"That pope, Benedict, he totally looked like Emperor Palpatine," Dean said promptly, "That was kind of evil."

"There doesn't seem to be any overt physical tampering," Sam noted, pointedly ignoring Dean's insinuation about a Sith pope, "But occult tampering could be something else."

"We must remain alert for further clues," said Castiel.

When they returned to the convention venue, Dean had apparently decided to begin his search for demonic activity at the catering tables.

"It's a reasonable place to start," he asserted as Sam rolled his eyes, "Everybody's goin' for the food, so it'd make sense to tamper with it, if you wanted to get to as many people as possible."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam sighed in resignation, and looked at his program booklet.

"Speaking of the Angel Of The Lord," Dean looked around; Castiel had apparently wandered off again. "Where is he now? Off getting more ideas about askin' you inappropriate questions?"

He caught sight of a tan trenchcoat at a stall that appeared to be advertising a wide range of leather apparel. Letting out a small sound of horror, he hurried over.

"...And he is always saying 'I should put a bell on your collar'," Castiel was explaining, "Which is strange, since I do not have a collar, and I do not think he means the collar of my shirt, so..."

"Cas!" Dean yelped, "What are you doing?"

"Hello, Dean," the angel said, "This is Melody and this is Stuart. I was telling them about your constant assertion that you wish to put a bell on my collar." He turned back to the proprietors of the stall, who gave him smiling nods of greeting. "This is Dean," he said. "And he is not a bossy bottom," he added firmly.

"Um," went Dean.

"Well, we have a number of items that might be suitable," melody began in a businesslike tone, "If you want something plain, something for under everyday wear, I'd suggest..."

"ThankyoubutIneedtotalktohimaboutsomethingimportan trightnow!" squeaked Dean, grabbing Castiel's elbow and dragging him away from the stall.

"Dean, I believe that what you just did could be construed as bad mannners," Castiel frowned slightly.

"What the hell were you doing?" demanded Dean.

"Investigating the stall for any sign of demonic activity," Castiel replied.

"Can't you do that without getting measured up for a collar?" pleaded Dean. "Are you tryin' to give me a heart attack? Seriously, is that what you're aiming for? Because if you are, you're... what's that?"

There was a commotion of activity in the crowd, a swirl of movement and a flash of colour. A convention TV crew was trailing a wandering presenter, who was moving through the crowd, speaking to people, accompanied by a man and a woman who were carrying baskets and dressed in lifeguard outfits that made the cast of _Baywatch_ look positively prudish.

"Well as you can see, Over The Rainbow is in full swing," the presenter spoke cheerfully to the camera as she walked, "Are you having a good time?" The crowd around her cheered and mugged for the camera. "Right now, I'm on patrol with the guys from the Lifesaver campaign!" The crowd cheered again. "They're spreading the love, and the word about safe sex. So, what's your message to everybody here, and beyond?"

"Stay safe," the female lifeguard addressed the camera, "If you're gay, or straight, or in between, it doesn't matter, always use protection, because it could save your life, and someone else's."

"And what have you got here for convention-goers?" the presenter asked.

"We're making sure that everybody has access to PFDs," explained the male lifeguard, "Which means, of course, Personal... Frolicking Devices!" The crowd hooted and laughed at the acronym as the female lifeguard began to hand out the condoms, dams, lube and leaflets in her basket. "Don't launch the loveboat without your PFD, people! Go down with someone you love, not an STI!" The crowd cheered again as he began to distribute the contents of his basket too.

"Oh, God," moaned Dean, "Come on, let's get out of here... Cas?... Cas! Come back here!"

There is a saying dating back to ancient times saying that whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.

It might also be inferred that whom the fates would point and laugh at, they first humiliate beyond description...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Don't you dare lecture me about snoring with my eyes open," griped Dean as they left their last session for the morning, "How could you drag me into something like that?"

"It was one of the discussions attended by several of the couples who were targeted at other conventions," Castiel reminded him. "Possibly, there was a connection between how happy they were, and them being targeted. Only a couple wishing to commit to each other would seek information about finding a lender who would give offer them a mortgage as a couple."

"I'm inclined to think that maybe the demonic activity was right there in those slides," Dean grumped, "Didn't Crowley say that PowerPoint was invented by a demon who was working out of hours?"

"Nonetheless, it is part of this job to attend these talks," Castiel intoned, surveying the tables where lunch for the convention-goers had been laid out. "Now you may overeat to compensate for your boredom and discomfort at being here."

"Hey, guys," Sam caught up with them, "Anything so far?"

"If you want to set up house with your boyfriend, I can now give you more intel on the best deals around than I ever wanted to know," Dean complained, "But apart from that, nada. I'm gonna eat. Cas, do NOT go buy a collar, you understand me?"

"Yes, Dean," the angel replied.

"Wow," Sam watched his brother stomp off in the direction of food. "I told you he was bossy. And grumpy. I mean, grumpy even for him. Grumpier than I would've expected this job to make him."

"For some reason, I believe his is unhappy about my procuring samples from the stalls and booths here," Castiel indicated the growing collection of freebies he was accumulating, "And the condom giveaway."

"Condom giveaway?" Sam blinked. "You mean the safe sex initiative? The Lifesaver program? It is a major theme of the convention. Resurgence of STIs was one of the sessions I went to this morning. I thought he'd have liked the chance to have a surreptitious ogle of the, er, lady lifeguard. That outfit is a working definition of 'diaphanous'."

"Given that we have already found one that appears to have been diabolically affected, I thought it would be prudent to obtain more, to see if there are more similarly affected prophylactics being distributed," the angel explained.

"Sounds reasonable," Sam nodded, "We need the intel. You pick up anything freaky from these characters?"

"Not at the time," Castiel confirmed, "But a convention TV crew was with them, interviewing people. You could review the footage if there is anything suspicious about their giveaways."

"We'll get the dogs to check out the stuff later," Sam said, "I'm gonna be at the wifi hotspot."

While Castiel headed off to prowl the stalls again, Sam grabbed a salad roll, lined up for a coffee, and found somewhere to sit down near the IT hub that had been set up. He had some more files he wanted to scan through, but found his eye drawn to the large screen where footage from convention TV was playing to entertain attendees during the break. There was footage of the finance lecture that Dean and Castiel had attended, then a cut to a bubbly reporter, following the Lifesaver lifeguards through the crowd and doing vox pop interviews with conventioneers.

He had one ear listening to the footage as she cheerfully flitted from person to person like a butterfly, asking about names, partners and experiences of the convention so far, not paying it a lot of attention until he heard a distinctive voice answer her question...

"My name is Castiel. I am an A... attendee from interstate."

Sam's head shot up.

On the giant screen, Castiel was giving the reporter his most serious Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. Beside him, Dean looked like a rabbit caught in a shooter's spotlight.

"And what are your impressions so far, Castiel?" she asked.

"I have attended a number of sessions, and found them most interesting," replied the angel. "Also, I have been offered a number of useful gifts from the generous individuals attending this event to advertise services." He transferred his stare to one of the lifeguards. "I would like several of those contraceptives, please," he told her.

"So, are you here with someone, Castiel?" asked the reporter?

"Yes." Castiel turned briefly to Dean. "This is Dean. I share a profound bond with him."

Dean managed a small desperate smile, and a little wave to camera. "Hi," he squeaked.

"I wish to make it clear that he is not a bossy bottom," added the angel firmly.

"Well, it's great to see you guys setting an example for the youngsters in our community!" said the lifeguard, proffering her basket. Castiel took a handful as she spoke to camera, then tourned and took a handful from the other lifeguard's basket. "STIs are resurging in the whole of society – but here's a couple who I'm guessing know all about the importance of avoiding unprotected sex."

Castiel considered her remark. "We have never had unprotected sex," he confirmed. "And we never will." He turned to Dean. "As you can see, Dean is uncomfortable at the very thought of us having unprotected sex."

"Meeeeep," went Dean.

"Good advice from participants here at Over The Rainbow," burbled the reporter, moving on through the crowd.

Sam took a deep breath, closed his laptop, and made his way through the building until he found a stairwell that took him to the basement, where he found a janitor's storage room. He locked himself in, and laughed until he could barely breathe and was on the floor gasping for breath.

After that, he went back to his file searching.

And sent a link for the footage to Bobby.

* * *

When I was at uni, Condoman was the STI-fighting superhero at the centre of the safe sex campaigning. Later, he acquired a female accomplice called Lubalicious. His motto was 'Don't be shame, be game – use condoms'. Ah, the heady days of worrying about safe sex. These days, it means making sure that the dogs can't get in during the performance and neither of us does anything to aggravate ageing damaged joints...

Incidentally, did anybody else see the research on safe sex for hip replacement patients?

www**DOT** arthroplastyjournal**DOT** org/article/S0883-5403(13)00561-5/abstract

manuscript is available here

www**DOT** artanim**DOT** ch/publications/23**DOT **pdf

(replace DOT with a full stop, and remove spaces)

Seriously, the couple who agreed to do that should get some sort of award for contributions to science.

Reviews are the Angelic Being Bringing You A Hot Beverage When You Need It After You Have Been Kicked In The Head By The Hangover Of Life!


	11. Another Review-Soliciting Interlude!

Well, Fabian can't decide whether Dean should head off to a bar to drown his horrification at Castiel's performance, or seek solace in a large piece of pie (and maybe get some good advice on dealing with Man Trouble), but instead we did find this little excerpt from Fanservice - The Musical! And so, we present...

**Another Irrelevant Interlude!**

**SPECIAL BONUS REVIEW-SOLICITING FEATURE!**

* * *

_Darkened set with lots of coloured lights. The music is bass-heavy, dubstep type thumping._

**Sam: **This is bordering on obscene!

**Castiel: **Why is there velcro down the sides of these trousers?

**Crowley:** You think you have problems: I believe I might have studs in my shorts, and I demand to know why I am wearing this afro fright wig!

**Gabriel:** Please tell me there will be no lamé underwear involved, it's kind of tacky.

**Lampito:** Look, you are his posse, so get out there, and, and, and, poss!

**Sam: **How do we do that?

**Lampito:** You know, wiggle about suggestively, show 'em what you got. Bust some moves.

**Castiel:** I suspect that if I do more than walk slowly, I will bust these velcro seams.

**Lampito. **They're for the big reveal later. Now, get out there! The Denizens are waiting!

_The tempo of the music changes, and is possibly reminiscent of a band using an internet acronym as a name. The posse is shoved out onstage, where they begin to dance in the manner of men being threatened with a pointy stick from offstage._

**Lampito: **That's your cue.

**Dean: **This outfit is seriously drafty.

**Lampito: ** You just wait until after the second verse, Pretty Boy, now, go do your thang!

_Having been given a hearty shove, Dean stumbles out onto centre stage, clears his throat and, eyeing the pointy stick warily, begins his song._

**Dean:  
**When I hustle pool, girls be looking like damn he's cool,  
When I eat the pie, fuglies know that they're gonna die.  
This is how I am, on the road with my car and my brother Sam  
Demons ghosts or ghouls or witches, we're gonna gank them sonsobitches

**Sam: **  
Dean, you're really disgusting  
Dean, you're really disgusting  
Dean, you're really disgusting

**Dean (waggling eyebrows and smiling):**  
I put out.

**Sam: **  
Dean, you're really a jerk bro  
Dean, you're really a jerk bro  
Dean, you're really a jerk bro

**Dean (still waggling eyebrows):  
**I make out.

When I look in the mirror, this is what a see:  
A total Killer Smile lookin' back at me.  
I got talent with the ladies and I aint afraid to show it, show it show it -  
I'm Sex God and you know it.

_They all begin to dance frantically to the bass beat. A pointy stick is just visible from the wings, gesturing threateningly or encouragingly, it's hard to tell._

I'm Sex God and you know it.

_More dancing ensues. Castiel clutches worriedly at his velcro. Crowley clutches at his wig. Gabriel surreptitiously tries to check for lam__é__ fabric._

**Dean:  
**When I'm at the bar, ladies be lookin' from near or far,  
When I'm on the job, I'm makin' their libidos throb,  
This is what it brings, savin' people and Huntin' things,  
I kill the monster, save the girl, and then spend the night makin' her toes curl.

**Sam:  
**Dean, hey where are you going?  
Dean, hey where are you going?  
Dean, hey where are you going?

**Dean:  
**I sneak out.

**Sam:  
**Dean, I'm doing my bitchface  
Dean, I'm doing my bitchface  
Dean, I'm doing my bitchface

**Dean:  
**He freaks out.

Shoot me, 'lectrocute me, drop a Steinway on my head:  
Dean Winchester never quite stays dead,  
Cause I'm just a Hunting legend, and I aint afraid to grow it, grow it, grow it –  
I'm Sex God and you know it.

I'm Sex God and you know it.

**Lampito (from the wings): **The velcro's there for a reason, fellas, let's hear it rip, and make with the waggling!

_She waggles the pointy stick. They all pull of their velcro stripper trousers to reveal astonishingly bling shorts. Crowley mutters unhappily about studs. Gabriel lets out a little hiss of disgust at his silver lam__é__._

**Dean (waggling his eyebrows in an extremely lewd fashion):**

Waggle waggle waggle waggle waggle yeah.  
Waggle waggle waggle waggle waggle yeah.  
Waggle waggle waggle waggle waggle yeah.  
Waggle waggle waggle waggle waggle yeah.  
I'm the Living Sex God.  
I'm the Living Sex God.  
Have you been to church lately?  
I'm Sex God and you know it.

I'm Sex God and you know it.

_Wiggling, waggling and generalised gyrating ensue; music fades and finishes. Performers scuttle offstage._

**Sam: **If we could just get that pointy stick away from her.

**Gabriel:** These shorts do nothing for my skin tone, they make me look sallow. The least you could do next time is give us some warning. And some fake tan.

**Crowley:** She is a woman of great talent – I wonder if she'd be interested in taking a senior position in the torturing department? I certainly never thought of using studs like this before.

* * *

This particular interlude reminds me of a thoroughly disturbing link that was sent to me by one of the more depraved Denizens; it's a piece on deviantART, by bakaneko1126, entitled 'I don't know', and the link is at:

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** bakaneko1126**DOT** deviantart**DOT** com/art/I-don-t-know-316436526

Some of you worry me. A lot.


	12. Community Service Announcement

The things that people find...

While many of you are probably aware of just how many pictures of Dean wearing Rhonda's pink panties are out there on the interwebs, I have only just been made aware of the existence of a drawing of 4/5 of the cast of 'Fanservice - The Musical'. (Which is just as well, because I don't think I could cope with Crowley in his jocks.) Seriously, who would've thought that somebody would draw that? It's on deviantART, done by jack-o-lantern12, and titled 'SPN Undies'. All it needs is the pointy stick...

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** www**DOT** deviantart**DOT** com/art/SPN-Undies-393476843

There are people Out There on the Interwebs with too much time and bandwidth on their hands...


	13. Chapter 10

And now, onward with our game of 'How Many Ways Can You Make Dean Freak Out?'...

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Dean was fuming about the encounter with the Lifesaver lifeguards when Sam found his brother and Castiel again.

"Hey there, poster boys," he greeted them cheerfully.

"Hello Sam," Castiel said. Dean just gave him a snarl that would've rivalled Lemmy sniffing a demonic condom.

"So, do any of your PFDs look... unseaworthy?" Sam asked innocently.

"Fuck off, you hairy freak," muttered Dean.

"I believe that three of them may be affected," Castiel intoned, "I would like to see your dogs' reaction to them to be sure."

"What do you think Dean?" asked Sam.

"He refuses even to look at them," Castiel replied. "But he will not say why."

Sam gave his brother a confused look. "Dean, what's the deal? Why won't you look at them?"

"You can tell _him_," muttered Dean, "That I said he was so obviously keen on hoarding rubbers, I wouldn't want to violate his stash."

Castiel cocked his head. "There is no need for Sam to relay that information," he sounded confused, "I can hear you myself."

"You can tell _him_," Dean announced, "That I am not talking to him."

"That does not make sense," Castiel commented, "If you are not talking to me, why are you saying things meant to convey information to me within my hearing?"

"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "Dean, how old are you?"

"Old enough to know better than to do... _that_ to somebody who's supposed to be my friend!" snapped Dean. "And he's a lot older than me!"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean, he didn't do it on purpose, you know how literal he can be," he began, but his big brother had climbed too far up the ladder of high dudgeon to be easily coaxed down again. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Somewhere you assholes are not," griped Dean, stomping away in a cloud of outrage.

Castiel made to follow Dean, but Sam put a hand on his arm. "Let him go," Sam sighed, "Let him cool off."

"I have done something to upset Dean, and I wish to apologise," Castiel said, "Although I do not understand exactly what I have done to transgress. I said nothing but what is true; we do share a profound bond, he is most certainly not a bossy bottom, he was adamant about not giving anyone that impression, and we have never had unprotected sex. We have never had sex of any sort – our relationship is a deep friendship, but in no way a romantic one."

"It's... complicated," Sam settled on, "It's like the, you know, the Personal Space, and the references you don't understand?" Castiel looked confused. "Look, you know he's really not comfortable about even pretending to be gay? Well, he's really uncomfortable about pretending to be in a romantic relationship with a guy. And he's really, really uncomfortable about anybody thinking that he's having sex with that guy."

"But I specifically said we did not," Castiel reminded him.

"The thing is, Cas, when you said you've never had unprotected sex, anyone listening would think, oh, hey, those two guys, they always have safe sex," Sam explained.

"That does not follow," Castiel objected. "If I say, 'I have never jumped out of an airplane without a parachute', it is flawed logic to assume that I am actually a skydiving enthusiast."

"It does when you're caught in the middle of a condom giveaway at a GLBT convention," Sam said gloomily. "It's a human thing – people are great at filling in the blanks for themselves, even when there technically aren't any blanks that need filling in."

"What should I do, then?" Castiel asked.

"Like I said, let him go," Sam advised, "He'll go find somewhere to drink, or eat pie, and cool off. He'll get his head back in the game, and he'll be back. This is a Hunt, after all, and he won't forget that."

"Very well," agreed Castiel, "I shall continue my perusal of the stalls here and checking the items they are offering." He looked concerned. "Will it not appear strange to anyone who notices that we are supposed to be a couple, but one of us is not here, having stormed off angrily?" he asked.

"Nah," Sam grinned, "Everybody will just think that it's a bit of a lovers' tiff. Exactly the sort of flouncing exit you'd expect from a bossy bottom."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean considered finding a bar, but then he walked past a café called the Pink Cadillac with the desserts cabinet in the window. It was crammed with delicious looking, beautifully decorated treats, including a plate of small carefully latticed apple pies. The pastry sang its siren song, so he went in, ordered a coffee and a pie with cream and ice cream, and found a seat by the window. He sat, fuming at the cluelessness with which Castiel managed to operate, and fantasised about a very large fryer full of holy oil, wondering whether dogs with Hellhound heritage would enjoy fried angel wings.

Some time later, he registered a presence at his elbow. Another pie was placed in front of him.

"On the house," said a sympathetic voice. "He really upset you, huh?"

"I don't believe how clueless he can be!" Dean burst out, "He has the social skills and the tact of a, a, a block of wood! Seriously, after all the time we've known each other, and then he can go and say something like..." he, paused, startled, and whipped around, realising what he'd just said.

The proprietor, an older man who could only be described as 'theatrically flamboyant' in dress and manner, regarded him kindly.

"It's okay," he said, "You'd be amazed at how many people come here for the comfort food. Some of my regulars accuse me of putting crack in the desserts."

Dean felt his cheeks flush. "It's not what you think," he mumbled.

The man, whose name tag labelled him as Mervyn, chuckled, but not unkindly. "It never is, honey, it never is," he said. "But I don't like to see anybody upset over a tiff. Oh, don't look at me like that," he chortled, "When you've been around as long as I have, you know the signs. So, maybe it's none of my business," he added, "And if you don't want to talk, I'll just keep the pie coming. But just sitting and steaming about it won't make you feel any better. Take some advice from an old man who knows."

"He, uh," Dean stuttered, "He said something, kind of, uh, upsetting. In front of some other people."

"Hmmmm, never a good thing," said his host judiciously. "Did you have a fight?"

"What? No!" Dean replied, "He just, he just," he poked at the pie, noticing that it was meticulously decorated with candied mint leaves and rose petals. "Sometimes, he just takes things very literally. And he says things that come out... wrong."

"So, he didn't mean to upset you, then?" queried Mervyn gently.

"No, I don't think he did," Dean sighed. "I'm sure he didn't. He just kind of, well, he's not always real good with context." He shuddered. "There was this one time, we were arguing, and I told him to kiss my ass, and the next thing, he's tryin' to get behind me..."

"Not always a problem," Mervyn chuckled again, "But seriously, he didn't mean to upset you, but what he said just came out wrong?"

"Yeah, pretty much," agreed Dean.

"Does he know why you're upset?" Mervyn pressed.

"I don't think so," Dean shook his head.

"Why not?" asked Mervyn.

Dean blinked at him. "Well, I guess it's because he just... he doesn't understand."

"Well, sounds to me like you gotta explain it to him," his host said promptly.

"You don't know what it's like tryin' to explain stuff to him," Dean almost wailed.

"No, I don't," agreed Mervyn, "But the worst thing you can do, is leave him guessing, or just as clueless as before."

"I've tried!" Dean said, "But seriously, sometimes, he just doesn't get it!"

"Then, make him understand," stated Mervyn firmly. "You sit him down, and you use smaller words, and shorter sentences, until he understands."

"You make it sound so easy," humphed Dean.

"I never said it would be," grinned Mervyn, "If it was easy, there'd be no market for comfort food, and I wouldn't be here, right?"

"I guess not," Dean managed to smile, and took a forkful of the pie. "This is really good," he noted. "Different. What's in it?"

"Oh, it's my secret recipe," Mervyn waggled his eyebrows, "There's some thyme, and pepper, and not too much sugar. My apple pies are like life: it's good to spice it up a little, and nobody wants it sticky-sweet all the time, or you end up feeling sick. And developing diabetes."

"Everything I Know About Life I Learned From Pie," Dean grinned, "I like that philosophy."

Mervyn drifted away to serve some more customers, and Dean got stuck into his delicious dessert. Perhaps he had been a bit harsh with Cas, he thought – he was well accustomed to the Sheriff of Heaven's Rainman tendencies, and maybe he shouldn't have been surprised at the turn events had taken.

Whether it was the good coffee, or the excellent pie, or the opportunity to cool down a bit, by the time he was ready to pay and leave, Dean had stopped fantasising about coating Castiel in breadcrumbs and turning him into a tasty snack for the dogs. He thought he might even try to explain why he had been so pissed.

"Not contemplating homicide, I hope?" asked Mervyn hopefully.

"Not any more," Dean assured him, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should just talk to him. Or at him, if I have to."

Mervyn smiled broadly, and slid two of the little apple pies into a box.

"That's the spirit," he said, handing over the box. "Feed him one of these, and while he's eating, he can't talk. Making 'I' statements is all very well, but sometimes, honey, you just gotta be a bossy bottom."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When the afternoon sessions were preparing to convene, Sam found Castiel again. The angel was staring intently at a small flat item.

"Whatcha got there, Cas?" he asked.

"It is an e-reader," the angel replied, holding it out for Sam to see. "I won it."

Sam did a double take at the late edition reader. "You... won it? How?"

"Many of the companies represented here are holding competitions," Castiel explained, "All you have to do is fill in a form, and put it in the box. They choose a winner from the box." He fished in his pocket, and took out a small card. "Also, I have won this music download token. Would you like it?"

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Sam took the card. "Cas, how many competitions did you enter?"

Castiel looked bemused for a moment. "All of them," he replied. "Do you think Dean would like this reader?"

"I guess you can ask him," Sam shrugged, looking at his watch. "I thought I might go to the epidemiology session. It includes a Lifesaver strategy discussion, so that might be worth checking out, to find out if it's part of a wider strategy to distributed demonic condoms. What about you?"

"I think this would be appropriate," Castiel pointed out a workshop in his program booklet. "It was attended by some of the couples who turned murderous, but it might also assist me to understand what it was I did to upset Dean, so I have put our names down. Also, I believe that the title is a mechanical term, which may amuse him."

Sam looked at the program, and his eyes bugged a little.

"Er, Cas," he began carefully, "Normally I'd say, yeah, go for it, because there's nothing I like better than watching my big bro squirm uncomfortably, but I think it'll take a bit more than a bit of jargon to get Dean to agree to go to that sort of... thing. I mean, he's about as emotionally constipated as it's possible to get at the best of times, and right now he's seriously pissed – this could really make him explode. He'll think you're doing it on purpose, and he'll yell at you. Then he'll think it was my idea, and he'll yell at me..."

"I shall explain to him that it would be prudent to attend, as a vital part of gathering intelligence about this job," Castiel stated, "Which is not a lie."

"Cas," Sam sighed, "Remember the thing about jumping out of planes without a parachute? Well, you may not get a choice, metaphorically speaking; Dean may just throw you out, so to speak..."

"That would not be a problem," Castiel smiled serenely, "Because I can fly."

"Hey, guys!" Dean weaved his way through the crowd to find them, "Where are we goin' next?"

Sam did a double-take at the apparent change in his brother's demeanour. "Who are you and what have you done with my angry brother?" he demanded.

"I have communed with the gods of pie," Dean intoned, "And am now feeling marginally less like strangling both of you, so you should probably send them prayers of thanks sometime."

"Uh, well, I'm headed into the epidemiology discussion, and you and Cas, um..."

"I have selected a session that was attended by some of the affected couples," Castiel cut in, "Which may provide a lead as to what the demons are doing."

"If this turns into another death by PowerPoint," grumped Dean, "I'm gonna pull your feathers. Lead the way, Captain Clueless. I promise I'll try not to snore too loudly."

Sam watched Castiel herd Dean towards one of the smaller meeting rooms, and sighed, trying to look on the bright side. He'd be in a lecture theatre right next door, so if his brother did detonate, he'd never even see the flash; he'd just be vaporised, painlessly and instantly.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"This is a small room," Dean observed, taking in the dimensions and the loose arc of chairs where other same sex pairs were seating themselves. "It's gonna be a lot harder for me to nap in here."

"You are not supposed to nap," Castiel told him, "This is not a lecture. It is an interactive session, in which the attendees are expected to participate."

"Participate?" Dean asked, suddenly worried.

"Hello!" A cheerful, motherly woman came up behind them, smiling, and consulting a clipboard. "Welcome to the workshop! Just find yourselves seats."

"Workshop?" echoed Dean, as Castiel gave the convenor their conference names.

"We should take our seats," the angel instructed, choosing a chair, and picking up the small booklet from it. Dean picked up the one from the chair beside him and sat down, reading the title on the cover.

**SYNCHROMESH**

**A Communications Workshop For Couples Who Sometimes Find Themselves Grinding Gears**

* * *

Reviews are the Delicious Individual Cakie Thing Treats Served Up With A Soothing Hot Beverage When You Are Beset By The Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Life!*

*If you absolutely must, you may substitute a member of the cast from 'Fanservice - The Musical!' decorated with some whipped cream. You depraved beldames.


	14. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"What the hell is this?" Dean hissed at Castiel.

"It is exactly what it says on the booklet," Castiel murmured back, leafing through his own.

"I don't wanna do couples communication with you!" Dean muttered. "Any sort of communication with you can be like pulling teeth! 'I don't understand that reference'..."

"Then perhaps we will learn something," Castiel remarked calmly.

"Let's just be clear," Dean growled, "If she wants us to hold hands, and gaze into each other's eyes, and make 'I' statements, I am gonna shove that booklet where the sun don't shine."

"I do understand that reference," Castiel gave him a low wattage version of his authoritative 'I Am An Angel Of The Lord, Mofo' expression, "And you will do no such thing. We are tracking down demons who are killing people. If need be, you will act the persona of my partner to maintain this charade, and we will be convincing as a couple who wish to improve their communication skills. Do not let your chronic pathological terror of any form of intimacy or showing any sort of vulnerability get in the way of this Hunt."

"Don't you take that tone with me!" Dean's whisper rose in pitch with outrage. "Don't you... don't you make me go bossy bottom on your ass!"

He subsided with a final glower as the convenor began her introductory remarks. She congratulated the attendees for recognising that they had room to improve their relationships' communications, and began to talk about the nature of misunderstandings and the pitfalls of assumptions.

"What is this crap?" grumped Dean _sotto voce_, "The difference between 'hearing' and 'listening'? Sam's the one who swallowed a thesaurus when he was a kid."

"If you were paying attention, you would be finding out," Castiel whispered back, his attention on the speaker.

With barely concealed boredom, Dean tried at least to look like he was tuning in as the presenter moved on to the way that styles of communication learned from childhood were carried into adult life.

"So, let's give the PowerPoint a rest," she announced, "And turn to page four in your booklet. See that list? I want you to take a couple of minutes to fill that in, working on your own. Get to it, people!"

Castiel took one of the multiple pens he'd acquired amongst his convention freebies and bent conscientiously over the page. With a put-upon sigh, Dean turned to his own, and read the top of the table:

**Gears We Grind: Three Things We Cannot Agree About**

He chewed the end of his pen, then filled in the spaces.

_- Your Dad is a deadbeat asshole_

_- Your brothers and sisters are all dicks_

_- Personal Space!_

After a couple of minutes, the convenor called time. "Now, I want you to compare lists with your partner," she instructed, "And see what you can identify in common."

"Whacha got?" Dean asked, as Cas passed his booklet across to show him:

_- blatant disrespect for my Father_

_- Unhealthy behaviours: drinking to excess, eating an unwholesome diet_

_- Personal Space?_

Blue eyes gazed into green, which gazed right back.

"That sort of language is uncalled for," Castiel said, "I have told you on many occasions that my Father loves me, as I love Him, and He loves you, too."

"He's got a funny way of showin' it, dude," Dean replied. "And don't you dare diss bacon cheeseburgers. Not while you're wearing that vessel."

"My Father seeks to do what He believes is best for everyone, including you," Castiel stated with utter conviction. "He wishes for us all to be happy."

"Good," humphed Dean, "I'll have you know that drinking makes me happy. I think you can relate to that, Mr 'I-Found-A-Liquor-Store-And-I-Drank-It'."

"That was not the same," Castiel protested, "I was... very stressed at that time."

"Right, right," nodded Dean, "So, I get stressed and drink, and it's 'unhealthy', you get stressed and drink, and it's okay?"

"I did not say that," Castiel interjected. "And I do not maintain an entrenched habit of excessive consumption that amounts to alcoholism."

"I'm not an alcoholic!" snapped Dean. "Alcoholics go to meetings! Has it ever occurred to you that if your beloved Father hadn't been asleep at the wheel, I wouldn't have a job that would be enough to make anybody want to crawl into a bottle sometimes?"

"Perhaps it is not entirely my Father's fault," Castiel narrowed his eyes, "Perhaps your own father's derelict behaviour had a hand in this."

"Don't you dare drag my Dad into this," growled Dean.

"You think mine is the only 'deadbeat asshole'?" enquire Castiel with icy politeness.

Dean let out a wordless snarl, then they both heard a polite but firm voice say "Ahem."

They turned to see that the rest of the participants were staring at them.

"Er," stuttered Dean, studying his booklet intensely, "Maybe we could, uh, start with, er, Personal Space?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The STI epidemiology session was fascinating, and left Sam wishing that he'd had time in his college studies to include more science subjects. He put up his hand, and a microphone was passed to him.

"Can these resistance mechanisms be transferred from one type pathogen to another species of pathogen?" he asked, "Like, from one disease to another?"

"Absolutely," the speaker replied, "Horizontal or lateral gene transfer is a major cause of spreading drug resistance, and also other traits, like extoxins, or factors that increase virulence. Following these changes, rather than just a particular strain of a bug, can give us information about where particular control strategies can best be targeted, but it's really difficult to get this information in a timely manner so that we can use it. It can also make trying to track the movement of different strains through a population a total pain in the ass..."

He was taking notes, finding the material so engaging that he had to make sure he kept half his attention in Hunter mode, alert for any indication of demonic scheming. His ears pricked up when another question was asked:

"You've already described how STIs are resurgent amongst the whole of society – is there any plan to take the Lifesaver strategy beyond the GLBT community?"

"We'd love to," the speaker smiled ruefully, "But the funding we're receiving isn't sufficient. It was intended to be GLBT-targeted, so here we are. We share information with a number of other groups that are doing similar work in the wider community, but we figure that it's better to use what we've got in a targeted and effective way, rather than end up so diluted that we don't achieve anything."

Sam made a note to himself: _Who funds Lifesaver?_

The session chair thanked the speaker, and the audience applauded. "And what discussion of the Lifesaver strategy would be complete without... lifeguards!" Some upbeat music started up, and half a dozen 'lifeguards' came dancing in, to the hooting and cheering of the audience. They danced up and down the aisles, showering the audience with candy and condoms thrown from their baskets. Sam snagged a couple, to run past the dogs later.

He made his way out of the auditorium and headed for a coffee stand, sparing a glance towards the smaller meeting rooms: none of them appeared to have been subjected to any sort of explosion, which suggested that Dean and Castiel's workshop must have been going smoothly...

"Oh!" he bumped into a young woman who was standing on her toes, trying to hang a rainbow banner. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," he apologised, "I was fixated on coffee."

"No harm done," she smiled, picking up the banner, and looking helplessly up at the hook she was aiming for. "Er, could you...?" she gestured helplessly.

"Oh, sure," he smiled back, taking the end of the banner and hanging it up. "FFLAG", he read, turning to her with a questioning look.

"Friends and Family of Lesbians And Gays," explained a grandmotherly woman who was placing items on the table before the banner, "We're here to show we love them, and their sexuality is irrelevant. Here," she reached up and fastened a small stick pin of a rainbow-striped flag to his jacket.

"So," the young lady – Sarah, her name badge read – "Who are you here for? I'm here for my Mom."

"Me?" Sam blinked. "I, uh, that is..." he looked confused. "How did you know?"

The elderly lady made an amused sound. "Oh, you know how it is," she smiled sunnily, "I'd heard about the 'gaydar' thing, and when my son formally came out, I realised that I'd had one all along!"

"You got 'straight' written all over you, kid!" grinned a middle-aged man who picked up the tail end of the conversation as he arrived with a boxful of pamphlets and giveaways.

"My brother's always telling me I look and act 'totally gay'," Sam shrugged. "And he should know," he added, with a small stab of amused malice.

"Are you here for him?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah," Sam smiled widely. "Him, and his... partner. They make such a great pair. They were totally meant to be together. Every time I see them argue like an old married couple, I get a laugh."

"If only everyone had that sort of acceptance from family," sighed the man.

"Well, he's very lucky to have a brother like you," the elderly lady said, sitting down and taking some knitting out of a bag.

"That's what I tell him," beamed Sam.

"Thanks for your help with the banner," Sarah smiled at him, "Hey, you mind if I come and get coffee with you?" She waved a small card. "Stand staffers get half price on drinks and muffins!"

"Sounds great," he replied, with another glance back towards the meeting rooms. There was a reassuring absence of smoke, flames and people running screaming for safety; maybe Castiel was right, and they were both finding the workshop helpful.

* * *

There you are, Leahelisabeth, Sam has been outed as straight. I suppose now all I have to do is hurt him a bit, concuss him, tear his shirt, tie him up and shove him into a box and you'll be happy...

Reviews are the Plot Bunny-Fuelling Half-Price Oversized And Definitely Not As Healthy As The Supplier Would Have You Believe Muffins At The Café Of Life!


	15. Chapter 12

**Lampito:** So, there's hinting that the last chapter wasn't long enough, huh? Well, let's see if we can come up with something longer.

**Dean:** Longer, heh heh, they want it longer, it wasn't long enough, heh heh...

**Lampito:** Shut up, Pretty Boy, or I'll put you in arseless chaps and throw you to the Denizens – and guess who'll get to wear the spurs...

**Dean:** Meeeep!

**Sam: ** Heh heh.

**Lampito:** You're not too big to stuff into a box, Stretch.

**Sam:** Meeeep!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

When he was a child, Dean had not liked Show And Tell at school. From the age of four, his father had impressed upon him how important it was not to show or tell anything, to keep the 'family business' secret, even from his little brother. Whether that had contributed to what Sam called his 'emotional constipation', his intense dislike of talking about or admitting to personal feelings or vulnerability, fearing that such things might constitute some sort of weakness or defect, was difficult to say; it could just have been a part of who and what Dean was, how he had grown up, the job he had to do, the Hunter he came to be.

Or, it could just have been that pretending to be Castiel's paramour was such an exercise in excruciating embarrassment that he'd rather have sat down and gnawed through his own leg.

"This is a safe space, where you can talk about these things," the convenor reminded them all as each couple raised and discussed something they argued about. Some of them became quite animated, as the convenor clinically pointed out possible assumptions and misunderstandings that might be contributing to the problem.

"So, Castiel and Dean," she began, as the other couples smiled encouragingly, "Why don't you tell us about your issue?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean smiled nervously. "Uh, Personal space, right? We were gonna do personal space."

"It is a subject of great interest to Dean," Castiel agreed. "He talks about it a lot." He paused. "In fact, if I am honest, he shouts about it a lot."

"And why is that, Dean?" prompted the convenor.

"Hey, he's the one who's obsessed with my personal space!" protested Dean, "He's the one who can't stay out of it!"

"And how does that make you feel?" she asked.

"Dean looked nonplussed. It's... creepy," he admitted reluctantly. "I'll be doin' something, it could be anything, anywhere, in the shed, in the kitchen, in the, oh, God, in the shower, and then, suddenly, it's like, poof!, and he's just right _there_, and it's 'Hello Dean', and, and, he's... right there."

"And what do you do when he sneaks up on you?" she pressed.

"He usually swears, and yells 'Jesus H. Christ, Cas, personal fucking space!' at me," Castiel supplied helpfully.

"And how does that make you feel, Castiel?" she went on.

Castiel cocked his head. "Confused, usually," he replied. "And disappointed that he blasphemes so casually. It is just Dean, so I do not take offence."

"So, what we have here, is a habit, a behaviour, that's become established, entrenched, if you like," she suggested, "And it's disturbing you, Dean, and you too, Castiel. Is that right?"

They both nodded.

"So, why is this happening, when it's something that neither of you like?" she asked. "Dean, why do you think Castiel sneaks up on you?"

"He..." Dean paused. "He... I think, mostly, he doesn't get it," he eventually said. She nodded, and turned to Castiel.

"I come looking for Dean when I wish to see him," the angel said.

"So, you don't do it with the intention of creeping him out," she checked.

"That is correct," Castiel confirmed. "But I seem to, nearly every time."

"Sometimes my dog rescues me," Dean muttered, a trifle reproachfully.

"I think what we have here is an assumption," the convenor opined, "That's never been questioned. You both have differing ideas as to what constitutes Dean's personal space. That can vary enormously, depending on many factors..."

"Different ideas?" Dean burst out. "He has no idea!"

The convenor paused. "Have you tried to explain it to him?" she asked.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"...And after that Queer theory talk, I don't think I'll ever look at a mainstream film the same way again," Sam admitted, before taking another bite of his muffin.

"It's been educational, all right," agreed Sarah, "The session about..."

She was interrupted by the Lifesaver lifeguards dancing along, smiling and distributing candy and contraceptives, and Sam shook his head in bemusement as they went past, the crowd cheering them on.

"Where do they get the energy from?" he wondered out loud. "I don't think those guys have stopped dancing around from day one."

"It must be the candy," suggested Sarah. "So, Sam," she gave him a slightly wicked smile, "I don't suppose you'd like to grab one of their giveaways, and take it for a test drive?"

He smiled back. "I'm not real keen on candy," he replied gently, "And I'm not sure that the mother of my child would like me testing out the others."

Sarah sighed theatrically. "Oh, why are the cute ones always taken?" she griped good-naturedly. "I'll just have to make do with another muffin. Call in to the stall if you want coffee or cake again," she gave him a wink, "You can borrow my half-price card."

"Thanks," he smiled, check his watch; the Synchromesh workshop would still be running.

"So, how are your brother and his other half enjoying the convention?" she asked.

"Well, right now, they're doin' one of those workshops," he told her, "About communication? Frankly, I was pretty sure that he would've exploded by now, or at the very least come flouncing out, but there's a remarkable lack of outraged shrieking and collapsing walls."

"I know I shouldn't be so mean," Sarah grinned, "But sometimes, there's something terribly amusing about a tantrum from a bossy bottom..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You'd be amazed how often this one issue causes misunderstanding and outright offence," the Synchromesh convenor explained. "The concept of 'personal space' – the area of space around someone's physical body that they consider to be 'theirs', where they feel a physiologically-provoked sense of psychological discomfort when that space is intruded upon – is highly variable, difficult to infer, and may change for an individual." She began to draw sets of rings on a flip chart, and put in some distance measurements. "It tends to be smaller for Europeans, and larger for Americans, smaller for city dwellers, larger for rural people, which can lead to all sorts of misunderstandings when people of different cultures get together..." she looked thoughtfully at Castiel. "Are you American by birth?" she asked.

"No, I am not," Castiel confirmed.

She nodded. "So, the things that have contributed to your ideas of how close you should stand to someone when you're interacting them have been influenced by your place of birth, your family, your upbringing..."

"I am from a very large family," Castiel offered, "And 'personal space' was not something I was ever aware of, before I met Dean."

The convenor's eyebrows shot up. "Dean, were you aware of this?"

"That he's from a large family?" queried Dean. "Yeah, I was. I've met a lot of 'em. And they're all dicks," he added in a resentful mutter.

Castiel frowned. "I do not appreciate you talking about my siblings like that," he intoned seriously.

"Well, they are!" Dean complained.

"I'm sensing some tension here related to your families," the convenor cut in, "And it's not at all unusual in same-sex relationships. How many people here have had some sort of difficulties with your families, with lack of acceptance, with regards to your relationships at some point?"

Every person in the room raised a hand. A couple of people teared up.

"Is this something that causes friction in your relationship?" she asked sympathetically. "It's quite common, I'm afraid."

"Well, yeah," Dean replied, "Our families are... very different. Very, very different. So different, in fact, you'd think they were two completely different species..."

"My family... takes religion very seriously," Castiel supplied. "Dean... does not."

"Has your family's beliefs caused a lack of acceptance originating with your parents?" the convenor asked.

"On the contrary," Castiel offered a smile, "My Father loves me. He loves Dean, too," he added, just a touch sadly, "If he would only allow himself to see it. He thinks of Dean as one of His children, and just wants all His children to be happy. I am saddened when Dean is blatantly rude about Him."

"Is that your intention, Dean?" she asked, "Do you say rude things about Castiel's father to upset him?"

"What? No!" Dean answered.

"Yet clearly, that's the effect it's having," she pointed out.

"Yeah, well, uh," Dean stuttered, as Castiel gave him a Profound Bond Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. "He shouldn't have... He shouldn't have, you know, just upped and disappeared like that. And left you to deal with... the family business."

"And now, He is back," Castiel said calmly, "And I take it as a gratifying vote of His trust and confidence that He has left me to oversee matters in His stead."

"Your brothers are still dicks," Dean muttered. "And not just to me! What about Luci... Luciano?"

"Who is Luciano?" asked the convenor.

"Castiel's second oldest brother," Dean replied. "And he... beat Cas to a pulp! Then he would've killed me if my brother hadn't managed to stop him!"

There were gasps of horror from the group.

"And I have forgiven... Luciano," Castiel said firmly, "Our Father took him to task, and he served a custodial sentence as a result of his behaviour."

"Dean," the convenor broke in, "It's important that you try to concentrate on your relationship with Castiel here. As distressing as other family issues may be, his relationships with his family is for him to work out – we cannot change how people treat us, but you can change how you treat each other. We're here to talk about how you two can talk more constructively about things that affect your relationship. So, let's get back to the personal space issue." She turned back to the diagrams she'd drawn. "Is that any clearer, Castiel?"

Castiel frowned. "So, it is a culturally influenced, physiologically controlled response to the physical proximity of another person, and it may provoke anxiety, an activation of the 'fight or flight' response, if that space is encroached upon by another individual, even if that individual is well known to the person?"

"Exactly," the convenor confirmed. "Many factors can contribute to defining an individual's personal space – for many reasons, Dean may require a larger personal space than average to avoid becoming agitated."

Understanding dawned on Castiel's face, and he looked at Dean. "Why did you never explain it like this?" he asked.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam found his way to the Lifesaver promotional stall, where he was offered candy and condoms, and hit on by another straight woman, and made casual enquiries about their funding. Having procured a couple of pamphlets which he thought might give him a couple of leads, he checked his watch. He wanted to go to a session on legal ramifications of will probate in unformalised same sex relationships, because it sounded really interesting.

The meeting room where the Synchromesh workshop was happening remained quiet. Kudos to his brother, he thought, as he headed for the lecture theatre, it appeared that Dean might actually be learning something.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

She watched the couples talking to each other, some in revealed understanding, some with a certain amount of relief. There was something really satisfying in helping people find out that certain habits and misunderstandings were sabotaging their communications, and knowing that she had shown them a way to improve their relationships by understanding each other better.

In the final exercise, there had been some tears, some laughter, and a general ambiance of optimism, anticipating the benefits of trying to break some old unhelpful communication habits.

She was particularly pleased with the final couple, who apparently had some issues to work through; one of them was clearly finding some of the ideas a challenge, but nonetheless participated. They were the last to complete the final exercise. They stood, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes.

"Dean," began Castiel, "When you swear and yell at me, I feel confused, and sad that you would do that. I recognise that my behaviour has contributed to this, in startling you. In future, I would prefer it if you did not yell at me, and pointed out in a more polite way exactly what I had done to annoy you."

"Er, Cas," Dean began hesitantly, with a smile that could equally have been a grimace, "When you... when you suddenly appear very close to me, I, uh, I feel a bit, you know, creeped out. I recognise that you were not doing it on purpose. In future, I would prefer it if you would not suddenly appear so close to me."

"Dean," Castiel went on, "When you say rude things about my Father, I am saddened, and sometimes angered, because I love Him, and know that He loves me. I recognise that my family's treatment of you has given you cause to be angry and resentful. In future, I would prefer it if you did not say rude things about my Father. His name is not a swearword."

"Cas," Dean went on, with a smile that could equally have been a grimace, "When you defend your family to me, I feel confused and angry, because of they way they've treated you, and me. I recognise that you are an adult, and your relationships with them are for you to define. I apologise for calling you a baby in a trenchcoat. In future, I would prefer just not to have to meet up with any of them. Because they're dicks," he added almost silently under his breath.

"Well done, everybody!" the convenor cheered, as the group gave themselves a round of applause. "I hope you've got something out of today's workshop!" She began to hand out little badges depicting two meshed gears. "So, what more can I say? Go and enjoy the rest of the conference, and don't grind your gears any more," she passed out some Lifesaver giveaways, "It's much more fun meshing your cogs!"

Dean didn't even hang around to waggle his eyebrows as the group hooted and catcalled at the suggestion.

"Thank fuck that's over," he sighed in relief. "If we'd been in there much longer, I think she'd have had us making puppy piles and singing Kumbaya. 'I' statements! Frigging 'I' statements! Who invented 'I' statements? I want to poke their 'I's out! "

"I found it to be a most interesting workshop," said Castiel thoughtfully.

"Well, when I get trapped in a happy clappy drippy hippy group hug session, I feel like clawing out my own brain," Dean griped, looking for Sam, "From now on, let's stick to sessions where I can snooze if I have to."

"You just made an 'I' statement," Castiel noted. "Well done, Dean."

"Hey guys," Sam threaded his way towards them, "How did the, er, workshop go?" He peered at Dean. "You haven't exploded."

"Hello Sam," Castiel greeted him, taking a step back. "I believe it has given me some interesting insights into clarity of human communications, and how to avoid misunderstandings."

"Er, that's, that's great, uh... is something wrong, Cas?" asked Sam.

"I am moving so as not to impinge upon your personal space," Castiel explained, a note of pride in his voice. "A personal distance ranging from approximately arm's length to four feet away is deemed appropriate, in Western societies, for conversations with friends."

"Er, okaaaay," Sam acknowledged dubiously.

"Hey!" complained Dean, "How come you're so careful of his personal space, but you're still getting into mine, Mr I Statement?"

"For the purposes of this Hunt, we are posing as couple," Castiel answered, "Which means, it is appropriate for me to be inside your intimate distance, which is the innermost zone of an individual's personal space. It is reserved for close family, children, and lovers. It also means that touching is acceptable for..."

"That's... very convincing, Cas," Sam turned his chuckle into a cough as Dean let out a small squawk of outrage. "So, anything weird goin' on in there?"

"Ohhhhh yeah," Dean intoned, "Plenty of weird..."

"I mean potential demonic activity, Dean," Sam clarified with a hefty Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean).

"We received more giveaways," Castiel showed him one of the small packets. "I believe this one to be tainted."

"We'll run it past the dogs," Sam nodded. "Meanwhile, I think we need to find out who's behind this Lifesaver initiative – who's funding it, who's organising it, who does procurement."

"Well, you ladies can go do all the research you like," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "I am all conventioned out for the day. I'm gonna find me a bar, and drink me some beer, maybe play me some pool..."

"Dean," Castiel said seriously, "When you go out drinking, I feel concerned that you may be damaging your health, or putting yourself at risk in other ways. I recognise that your drinking is heavily influenced by the stress of Hunting, and that you find it useful as a coping strategy. In future, I would prefer that you not drink quite so much alcohol."

Sam and Dean blinked at the angel.

"Er, what just happened?" asked Sam, mystified.

"Don't mind him, he's just makin' sure we mesh our cogs," sighed Dean.

"Dean," Castiel continued, "When you dismiss something I have to say out of hand, I feel sad and annoyed. I recognise that my naivety in many respects of human experience has contributed to your attitude. In future, I would prefer that you listen to what I have to say, and if necessary explain why if you don't agree."

"Come on, Cas, what the hell is this?" yapped Dean. "We're out of that workshop now, so knock it off!"

"He's just makin' sure he's communicating clearly, bro," Sam grinned, "Sounds crystal clear to me."

"Oh, God..."

"Dean, when you take my Father's name in vain, I feel affronted. I recognise that it's a common figure of speech for humans. In future, I would prefer that you did not blaspheme."

"If you don't stop right now, I'll..."

"Dean, when you threaten me, I feel somewhat bemused and saddened. I recognise that in the past, I have..."

"CAAAAAAAAS!"

* * *

**Lampito:** Wow, that's the longest one so far for this story.

**Dean:** *snigger snigger* Longest one, heh heh...

**Lampito:** Right, I warned you.

_tappitytappitytappitytap clickclick ENTER_

**Dean: **Aaaaaaaaaargh!

_Dean backs out of the room carefully with a panicked expression on his face_

**Castiel:** Hello Dean. Is that apparel not drafty?

**Dean:** AAAAAAAAARGH!


	16. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Dean decreed that an evening of drinking was required, mostly so that he could recover from the trauma of having to mesh his cogs with Castiel, and at least partly because he wanted the amusement of seeing his little brother get hit on.

"And you are not allowed to make any 'I' statements about my drinking, Cas," he stipulated, patting Lemmy and telling him to mind the car with Lars, "Because I need to drink to hustle pool. And because I like it. And because I hope it will help me to forget that frigging workshop. And because... what is that?"

Castiel held out the small item he was holding for inspection.

"Uh, Cas," began Sam carefully, "Why are you carrying a tape measure?"

"It is part of my strategy to avoid giving offence or discomfort by intruding inappropriately into the personal space of others," the angel replied, extending the tape. "For example, if I place the end against you thus, and measure a culturally appropriate distance, I can be confident that I am not too close."

"Cas," sighed Dean, "You walk into this place with a tape measure, and somebody might ask you to measure something for 'em."

"That will not be a problem," Castiel replied, "Since I have a tape measure, I would be happy to assist anyone who made such a request."

"Er, Cas, why don't you, you know," Sam waved his hands, "Kind of, eyeball the personal space thing. Like everybody else does. So you blend in."

Castiel cocked his head. "I would prefer to be as exact as possible," he said.

"Well, people will appreciate you makin' the effort," Sam assured him, "So just put the tape measure away."

"Very well." The provocative item disappeared into a coat pocket.

"So, me and Sam will hustle some pool," Dean outlined, "You can hang around and give the impression we're together, to keep others away from the irresistible yet inappropriate magnetism that is unavoidable for the Living Sex God. You should have a drink, too, so you fit in."

"Yes, Dean."

"But not the whole bar."

"Yes, Dean."

"We don't want the I-Found-A-Bar-And-I-Drank-It thing again, dude."

"No, Dean."

"I won't hold your hair out of the way."

"I understand, Dean."

"And you're really cranky when you're hung over."

"If you say so, Dean."

"Okay, let's go. Oh, and Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"All you have to do is kind of hover, and maybe just stare at anybody who gets to close to me."

"Yes, Dean."

"So take your hand off my ass, dude."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Afterwards, Castiel accompanied the Winchesters back to their room for the sake of appearances.

"I don't understand why you're so upset, Dean," Castiel remarked as he sat sandwiched between the two dogs, their heads resting contentedly in his lap.

"I'm not upset!" yelled Dean. "I'm pissed off! You were supposed to be my anti-wingman! Or my wing anti-man!"

"But I do have wings," Castiel pointed out reasonably, "However, allowing others to see them would have been inappropriate, and would have compromised our cover for this Hunt. I have my grace muted so no demons will detect me."

"What he means," Sam cut in, "Is that you were supposed to stop guys from trying to, uh, hit on him. Which, in fact, you did. Just like he told you to. With the stare, and everything."

"Yes, I did," Castiel agreed. "When that man asked me whether you were with me, I told him yes, and suggested that I would be unhappy if he approached you with the intention of asking you to engage in..."

"Don't say it!" yelped Dean.

"And when that other man asked me whether we were formally involved, and whether I would be prepared to share, I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not approve of him wishing to ask you to..."

"Don't say it!" Dean yelped again.

"Don't take it to heart, Cas," Sam grinned, "He's not actually annoyed at you for stopping them; he's annoyed at them, for asking your permission to hit on him, and he's annoyed at me, for getting hit on..."

"What the hell were you doing being hit on by women, Sam?" demanded his big brother.

"I can't help it," Sam shrugged, "The FFLAG guys, they're a support group for their gay relatives and friends, spotted me. Sarah said..."

"Who's Sarah?" barked Dean suspiciously.

"She was at the FFLAG stand," Sam replied. "She, uh, said I looked straight from a mile away, and she hit on me..."

"You totally do not!" Dean countered, "You have girly hair, and girly clothes, and girly taste in music – you know what the problem is? You're too convincing! Anyone would look at you, anytime, and say, hey, he looks so girly, he must be straight." He glared at his little brother. "I forbid you to be hit on by women for the rest of this job, Sam!"

"Right, right," Sam nodded, "Because that's totally something within my control. Maybe I could ask Cas to put his hand on my ass, then?"

"If you think it would help, I would be happy to put my hand on your ass, Sam," offered Castiel.

"No it would not help!" snapped Dean.

"If that is actually the reason you are annoyed," Castiel continued, "I don't think it is reasonable for you to be angry at me, Dean. I stopped those men from approaching you, and when that woman asked if she could approach you, I told her that..."

"What?" Dean's head snapped around. "There was a woman? What woman? There was a woman, and you didn't tell me?"

"Under the circumstances, I thought it inappropriate," Castiel replied. "You were in the middle of a game of pool, with several hundred dollars at stake, and I did not wish to distract you."

"Oh, Cas, man!" Dean wailed, "Priorities! The Living Sex God can clean up at pool while talking to a female, that's just how awesome I am! Was she hot?"

"If by that do you mean, 'Was she the sort of woman I would find sexually attractive', I believe the answer would be yes," supplied Castiel.

"Dean, you can't go catting around!" Sam insisted, "You'll blow our cover!"

"I have to, Sam," Dean complained, "I have to do something! All this pretend gayness, it's getting to me! It's driving me nuts! _He's_ driving me nuts! I need to get laid, Sam!" He glanced at Castiel in the mirror, and let out a sad little keening noise. "Next time, can you at least get her number?"

"I did." The angel fished in a pocket, and brandished a business card. "She was so interested in you, it seemed the polite thing to do. She said you are the type she was looking for."

"You did?" Dean broke into a sunny smile. "Awesome! So, why don't I drop you guys off, then I can make a call... gimme that card, Cas."

As the angel passed it over, and Dean glanced at it eagerly.

Then he let out an ear-splitting yodel of horror-outrage-discombobulation.

"What? What?" Sam reached for the card. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," snapped his brother, winding down the window and letting the card blow away into the night.

"What the... Dean, what was that?" Sam turned around in his seat. "Cas, what was on the card?"

"It was a business card," the angel replied with a frown. "I should retrieve that card – she struck me as suspicious, and she could have been relevant to our enquiries."

"Don't you dare," hissed Dean.

"What was it about her?" Sam pressed.

"She asked some strange, and I would say, inappropriate questions," the angel answered.

"Cas," growled Dean in warning, "It's not relevant."

"Oh, but Dean, it could be," Sam nodded earnestly, smelling blood in the water, "What sort of questions, Cas?"

"She claimed to be a talent scout for a production company called Man4Man," Castiel went on, "She wanted to know if Dean had any experience in the film industry, and even though I could have shown her, since I had the tape measure in my pocket, I did not think it was any of her business how long..."

"CAS! SHUT! UP!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean's temper had not improved a lot the next morning.

"Morning, Miss Lovelace," Sam greeted his brother sunnily.

"Fuck off, you perverted freak," snapped Dean, hauling himself out of bed.

Sam couldn't help himself; it was like having a big piece of untouched bubble wrap, and being told not to pop any of it. "Hey, I'm not the talent scout from the gay porn company," he raised his hands, "Don't get angry at me. Did you ever wonder how much money you could make?"

"Seriously, go fuck yourself, Francis."

"Nah, they didn't want me – you're the one who's 'the type'. You'd have to be careful though, you wouldn't wanna be typecast as a bossy bottom, could limit your career and your earning potential."

"If you do not shut the fuck up five minutes ago," Dean snarled as he dressed, "I will hurt you, Samantha, busted arm be damned, and leave you writhing on the floor."

"There's probably a market for that sort of thing, too, and you got your own leather jacket..."

Dean shot across the room, ready to crash tackle his brother and cause pain.

What actually happened was that there was a_ flap-flap_ noise, and...

"Hello De-_OOF!_"

Dean and Castiel went down in a tangle of trench coat, the tape measure flew through the air, and Sam collapsed laughing.

"Pfah!" Dean scrambled to his feet, "What the hell, Cas? What are you doing?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing, Dean," the angel stood up, and adjusted his coat. He waved his hand, and the tape measure flew back to it. He unreeled it a short way, and considered the short length of the tape. "Even for intimate friends, I believe that what you just did constitutes an encroachment upon my personal space."

"Gaaaah!" Dean let out a wordless yowl of outrage. "Give me your angel blade," he demanded.

"What for, Dean?" asked Castiel.

"So I can stab him," he jerked a thumb at Sam, who was still laughing, "Then you. Then I'm gonna hunt down that woman, and stab her, too, just for good measure."

"He's kidding, Cas," Sam chortled, "At least, I'm almost completely certain he's kidding."

Castiel turned an Eye Sex Stare Of Doom on Dean. "Your self-indulgent bad temper is not a valid reason to wish to injure me, or your brother," he intoned. "We have a Hunt to complete, Dean – regard last night as an indication of how good you are at adopting a counterfeit identity for your job, and concentrate on the task at hand."

Sam looked expectantly at Dean. "Isn't this where you say you go all tingly when he takes charge like that?" he suggested helpfully.

Dean drooped. "Are you sure your Dad doesn't hate me, Cas?" he asked plaintively.

"I am certain that He does not," Castiel gave them a little smile. "But He does have a sense of humour. Zeus and Odin, amongst others, have described Him as the funniest deity in the cosmos."

"People can go through their entire lives wondering 'Why am I here?'," grumped Dean, "But at least my destiny is clear. I exist solely for the purpose of bein' God's whoopee cushion. Come on, Sam, let's go get breakfast." He turned back to Castiel, and fluttered his eyelashes. "Will you be joining us, honey?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They arrived back at the convention centre as the event was starting up again.

"I see they're still goin' strong," remarked Dean as the Lifesaver lifeguards danced past again. "Man, they're like Hare Krishnas, only without the sheets." He turned to Castiel. "You want more giveaways, now is your chance."

"I believe that we have examined enough condoms to determine that they are being interfered with demonically," the angel replied, "Collection of further Lifesaver giveaways will not be necessary."

"I've been tryin' to find out where the Lifesaver funding is coming from," Sam said, pushing through the crowd as they headed for the IT zone. "I keep coming up against a dead end." The occupied a large sofa, and Sam started his laptop. "It's weird, because usually companies that make any sort of donation or funding provision for research, or education campaigns, their branding is all over it."

Castiel looked thoughtful, then pulled a condom from his pocket. "There is no identifying mark on this packet to indentify the sponsoring company," he noted.

"There's no identifying marks on anything!" Sam confirned. "There's no logos, there's no company sign, there's nothing on the Lifesavers' uniforms..."

"Well, there's not exactly a lot of uniform on a Lifesaver lifeguard to go puttin' sponsors' logos on," Dean said, watching appreciatively as the lifeguards danced back the other way. "Hey," he defended himself as Sam shot him a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "I'm allowed to look! And there's guys, too, so I could be lookin' at the guys, right?"

"The point is," Sam determinedly ignored his brother's unstoppable leering, "It should be everywhere, trumpeting the company's good corporate citizenship. But there's nothing."

"Could it be a case of philanthropy?" asked Castiel, "A wealthy individual or family making provision for research and education campaigns?"

"I wondered about that," Sam replied, "But there's no indication that a single source is providing the money. And get this," he turned the laptop towards them, "The manufacturer, the distributor – I had to do some serious digging to find out where the stuff was being supplied from. They're companies that just sprung up a couple of months ago. Same for the company that's made the research grant. Plus, this list? It's the companies and organisations that have promotional stands here – the highlighted ones have just sprung up out of nowhere in the last couple of months too. They might be of interest as well."

Castiel stared at the list on the screen. "It would be prudent to make sure that we have investigated all those stands," he announced. "I have checked many, but I will prioritise these." He paused, and put a hand into a pocket, and handed a piece of paper to Dean. "I won this yesterday – would you be interested in dinner for two at a local steak house, Dean?"

Dean choked on a mouthful of coffee.

"Cas has been entering competitions at the stand she visits," explained Sam, as Castiel patted Dean on the back, "And winning stuff, like that e-reader, and the memory sticks. Or, maybe he just wants to take you out on a hot date."

"When this job is done, I will take this voucher, and go by myself, and have two steak dinners," Dean growled. "Or I'll take Lemmy."

"Well, don't let me hear you complaining that he never takes you anywhere," shrugged Sam, turning back to his laptop. "I'm gonna stay here for the wifi, and keep following up on these companies. Although it's like trying to dig through rock with a plastic spork. What about you guys, what session are you goin' to?"

"I have no idea," Dean answered glumly, "Cas, what are you dragging me into this... Cas?" He looked around. "Hey, where did he go?"

"He'll be off investigating the stands again," Sam waved a hand.

"Crap, I'd better find him," Dean looked around again, searching for the telltale flash of tan trenchcoat, "Before he gets us signed up for a weekend of couples yoga or something."

"Don't worry too much," Sam suggested, "All he's done is ask questions and get giveaways."

Dean let out a strangled yelp, and set off across the large open foyer space.

The various booths and stands were arranged so that attendees could work their way systematically through them, so a search wasn't too difficult. Not wanting to look out of place, he sauntered as casually yet purposefully as he could, until he caught sight of Castiel.

The angel was examining an item, and speaking seriously to a middle-aged woman who was dressed in an outfit suggestive of an old-fashioned school uniform. A large colourful sign over the stand read:

**THE TOY BOX**

* * *

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear... what is Cas looking at, do you think?

Reviews feed the bunny, and distract the fickriter from the hideousness of RL, which makes them a humanitarian donation. You can claim them on your tax return. Fair dinkum. Just keep the receipt.


	17. Chapter 14

Leahelisabeth drew my attention to the latest episode of S9. So, Dean's talked to dogs, and they're on Earth for A Mysterious Purpose - are aspects of the Jimiverse approaching canon? If I get a job as a writer, I promise I'll do more shirt tearing...

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Castiel knew a lot. About a lot. Because he was an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven, and extensive knowledge about many things was his birthright.

He knew more history than any history professor, because he was so much older than any history professor, and had lived through much more history than any history professor. He'd experienced history and geography and palaeontology and astrophysics and a gamut of other subjects on a scale that no mortal mind could truly understand.

At the same time, he found that he could be amazingly ignorant about human beings.

He knew where they'd come from, how they'd evolved, how they'd dispersed across their world, how they'd developed from a species of ape to the dominant animals on the planet. He understood their physiology – after all, he'd had to put Dean back together after pulling him from Hell – and their biochemistry. He understood how humans' bodies worked.

What continually eluded him was an understanding of why humans'_ minds_ worked as they did.

For example, he understood that modern humans had first emerged as a nomadic species, which experienced an intermittent food supply. The genetically selected desire to seek out sugar or fat in foodstuffs was clearly a survival trait, under those circumstances, because stuffing your face with berries or well marbled meat whenever they became available could save your life if the rains were late, or winter came early, or for some other reason the food supply dried up or decreased dramatically afterwards.

However, that did not explain why modern humans felt the need to share specific food of high calorific content and dubious nutritional value at celebratory events, or following events deemed to be personal tragedies. And if it did, wouldn't it make more sense to celebrate a birthday with a bowl of molasses, or for a jilted woman to console herself with a comforting chunk of seal blubber?

Then there was the concept of 'fun'.

He understood what play was. Just about all animals above a certain intelligence threshold did 'play' as juveniles, mimicking the actions of adults, or making up their own games, as part of their intellectual development and growth, and to learn the skills they would need to survive once fully grown. As a fledgling, he had himself played with his brothers and sisters, between lessons, for exactly those reasons.

This didn't explain why adults – especially full grown _Homo sapiens_ – still felt the need to 'play'. Activities that appeared to have some point, such as sporting or intellectual pursuits to maintain health or hone mind or body, or activities, from painting to glassblowing to sculpture to baking, that produced something at the end of the activity, might make sense. But some of the things people did for 'fun'...

"I do not understand why you are finding this so engaging, Dean."

"Dude, this is Grand Theft Auto! What's not to love?"

"You appear to be driving a computer simulation of a car in a reckless manner – do you not do this regularly in the real world?"

"Yeah, but in the real world, I can't do... this!"

"The graphics depicting the fireball are not authentic – a real crash would not produce an explosion like that. Why do you wish to crash a simulated vehicle?"

"Becaaaaaaause, Spock, it's _fun!_"

He found humans endlessly fascinating and amazing, and was always keen to learn more about them. And so, rather than dismissing it as a lesser quality of a lesser species, as many of his siblings had, he'd opened his mind and his curiosity to learning more about 'fun'.

Perhaps his understanding of it was abstract, but he'd come to know a lot more about 'fun' than most angels did (except perhaps for Gabriel) through the time he spent with the Winchesters. He knew that drinking was deemed fun. He knew that sparring was deemed fun. He knew that teasing your brother was deemed fun (having given it a try on Gabriel as a practical experiment, he was prepared to concede that it could produce a guilty sense of satisfaction). He knew that looking at pictures of cats on the internet with badly spelled captions superimposed on them was fun. He knew that driving on a clear day, with a full tank and an empty road and music blasting from the speakers, was deemed fun. He knew that pranking your brother was fun. And then retaliatory counter-pranking was also fun. And he knew that sex was deemed awesomely fun.

He also knew about toys.

Children had toys. Dogs had toys. And some adult humans had toys. Toys were for playing games, in the pursuit of fun...

He was in earnest and educational discussion with the middle-aged naughty schoolgirl when Dean's breathless and slightly desperate cries reached him.

"Cas! CAS! Hey!" Dean arrived at the angel's side. "What have I said about you takin' off like that? What are you doin'?" he asked, his eyes wide with bemusement.

"Hello, Dean," replied Castiel. "I have been speaking to Angela here, and to Malcolm there," a portly man in a gimp suit gave him a cheery wave, "About the nature of fun, and the place of toys in play."

"You... huh?" went Dean.

"It has been most informative and educational," Castiel went on, "And while I might not understand the appeal of many of these items, I am now much better informed about them."

"It's always a pleasure to talk to a genuinely curious person," Angela said, "We just want to make people happy. Or, we want them to make each other happy. We aim to help people expand their horizons, and stimulate discussion..."

"Our horizons don't need expanding!" yelped Dean. "And we most definitely do NOT need any sort of stimulating!"

Castiel looked confused. "I don't understand," he frowned, "Have you not derived intense enjoyment from deliberately provoking horrified reactions from your brother by attempting to provide him with a detailed description of various intimate encounters you have experienced, such as that time in Colorado, where your partner offered to use a..."

"Cas!"

"...Or that time in California, where you encountered a casual partner who was particularly adept with..."

"Cas!"

"...Or that time in Mississippi, where you found yourself entertaining twins, and they had a whole box full of..."

"CAS!"

"...Not forgetting Mistress Amanda from Nevada, who proved to be expert at, and I quote, 'inflicting grievous bodily pleasure,' with..."

"_CAS!" _ squeaked Dean as he clapped a hand over the angel's mouth. "Be! Quiet!" There was a moment of silence, and Dean collected himself. "The thing is," he went on, in a bright brittle voice, "I don't want to miss our next workshop, after the fun we had yesterday."

Castiel looked confused again. "The next rounds of lectures do not start for another..."

"We wanna get good seats!" Dean trilled, grabbing Castiel's arm, "Come on, honey!"

"Better just go," Angela gave Castiel a wink, "My advice is, if your bossy bottom is already in a snit, don't make in worse."

"Thank you for your assistance," Castiel replied gravely, as Dean let out a small yip of outrage and practically dragged him away from the stand.

"Dean, I believe you may have behaved, once more, in a fashion that could be considered rude," the angel intoned in a disapproving voice.

"What the hell were you doing there?" demanded Dean, bundling Castiel away from the stand and heading for the meeting rooms.

"Checking out one of the stands that was on Sam's list of suspicious companies," Castiel replied. "One of the businesses that appears to have started up at the same time as the conventions, and the murders, began."

"Well, stay away from, you know, that stuff," instructed Dean.

"If we are to investigate possible demonic involvement, inspection of the stands is necessary," Castiel reasoned.

"Well, stay away from the ones that have anything to do with, you know," Dean waved his hands uncertainly.

Castiel cocked his head. "That will be difficult, Dean," he replied finally, "Since we are at a convention specifically intended to discuss matters pertaining to particular sexual orientations. There are in fact several more stands that I think require investigation..."

Dean grabbed hold of the angel's arm, and pointed him towards a group of people who were filing into a meeting room. "Nuh-uh," he said firmly, "Sittin' through Death By PowerPoint, while we get told about the best deals on cut-price environmentally-friendly laundry detergent designed specifically for pink fabrics and thong underwear, has gotta be better than lettin' you run around and look at... stuff like that..."

Castiel didn't' sound completely convinced. "Dean, are you sure..."

"Yes," Dean cut him off firmly, "Whatever they're talking about in here is better than what you were talking about out there."

People milled around the meeting room, until the woman and the man who were presumably the convenors, called everyone to order.

"Welcome, everybody!" the woman called cheerfully. "Let's get into it right away, shall we? Let's clear the chairs to start with..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam swore quietly to himself as he hit another dead end. Or, to be precise, another firewall. It was one more suspicious factor to the companies that had sprung up out of nowhere, just as the conventions started: he was willing to bet that the same person had set up electronic security for them, and whoever it was, they were very good. If his Hunter's whiskers hadn't been twitching beforehand, they certainly were now.

Frowning, he scanned down the list again. Companies whose aim was, on the face of it, to make people happy. Or, more accurately, make people make each other happy. Deliberately chasing the pink dollar. If there were demons involved, why did they want to make people happy? And after they'd made them happy, why did they want them to try to kill each other?

He decided to take a coffee break, and for his own amusement, he entered Dean and Castiel in the Super Dooper Wow-Whee Grand Prize Draw, which was offering 'a night of ecstasy, pleasure, and far too much naughty fun' in a sumptuous suite in a local five-star hotel to one lucky attending couple. He considered using his own name and a made-up partner, just so he could spend an evening away from Dean, who had felt the need to reinforce his own heterosexual masculinity every night in their hotel room by regaling his little brother with particularly inappropriate and unwanted tales from his past sexcapades.

Fortified with coffee, he returned to the IT hub, looking up at one of the screens just in time to hear the announcement that Castiel Novak had won the couples treatment package at the From Hair To Eternity day spa. He chuckled to himself, imagining the look of horror on his brother's face when he told them – "So, you want the Moor mud wrap, or the ginger jam body scrub, bro?" – as he looked at his watch, and noticed how much time had elapsed since Dean had set off to fetch the angel from one of the stands.

He was about to take out his cell and call when he noticed a tan trenchcoat threading through the crowd towards him, preceded by his brother, who was wearing a pained expression.

"HI guys," he greeted them.

"Fuck off Francis," scowled Dean, sinking slowly onto one of the large sofas, "Ohhhhh, I need a gallon of coffee, and a handful of Tylenol, then a hot chick with mad massage skills..."

"Uh, what happened?" asked Sam anxiously.

"I'll tell you what happened," Dean snapped, "This dick with wings dragged me into the 'Introduction To Yoga For Couples' workshop!"

"I did not," said Castiel firmly, "It was in fact Dean who chose that session. I attempted to draw your attention to the nature of the workshop as we approached the room, but you were intent."

Sam's eyes bugged. "You guys did yoga? Dean, you did _yoga_?"

"Asanas, with a capital ass," groaned his big brother. "How the hell that's meant to get anybody in the mood is beyond me – all I want to do is spend a week in a hot bath. Preferably with a hot chick. She'll have to do all the work, though."

"I found it very interesting," Castiel commented, "I found the stretching to have both a relaxing and invigorating effect upon my vessel. Regular practise of the discipline would have many health benefits for you, seeing as you spend so much time travelling in the car, such as increasing well-being and flexibility..."

"Don't talk to me about flexibility," growled Dean, "Yogi's pet."

"Yogi's pet?" echoed Sam.

"Oh, yeah," Dean sneered, "Swami Cas here, he's got all the moves, hey, look at me, everybody, I can balance on one leg, I can balance on my arms, I can wrap my arms around my body, I can wrap my legs around my head, which was, by the way,_ totally_ disturbing, when a guy does it..."

"I believe that it is intended to be a more advanced asana," Castiel explained, "Requiring flexibility in the hips, which many men find to be challenging, due to the angular nature of the male pelvis."

"Angular nature nothing!" Dean complained, "I could see your junk through your pants, Cas! I don't need to see that! I do NOT need to see that!"

"Well, what were you doing looking, then?" asked Sam mildly

"And do NOT get me started on your_ other_ performance," Dean scowled meaningfully. "That was just gross, Cas."

As Sam raised his eyebrows in enquiry, Castiel explained. "I believe that Dean is referring to halasana, the plow, a pose that improves movement through the whole spine and the hamstrings..."

"You looked like you were tryin' to suck your own dick, Cas!" Dean practically wailed, "Do you know how _wrong_ that is? Do you know how _traumatised_ I am?"

"Do you know what a drama queen you sound like?" Sam rolled his eyes. "It's just yoga, Dean!"

"It is not my fault if you insist on seeing everything in the context of sexual content," Castiel told Dean.

"Don't you two dare gang up on me," Dean snapped.

"Have you made any further progress on the list of suspicious businesses, Sam?" Castiel pointedly turned the conversation back to the Hunt at hand.

"Yeah, and no," Sam replied, "They've all got the same really good security."

"Many of them are also giving away merchandise, not just as competition prizes, but to anyone who shows an interest." He reached into his conference swag bag, and pulled out an attractively presented satchel. "This is from a stand representing a day spa – it is what I believe is called a 'pamper package'."

Sam looked into the satchel as Dean made a disgusted face, and whistled. "Wow, there's some good stuff in here," he marvelled.

"Well, you can take it and have a girls' night in, Samantha," grumped Dean, wincing, "You can do your hair, and do your nails, maybe do a face mask, then watch 'Beaches' and eat chocolate and cry…"

"What I mean is, it's, well, substantial," Sam elaborated. "It's not tiny little sachets, it's full sized bottles, shampoo, and conditioner, and shower wash… oh, er," he stuttered, pinking slightly as he found a bottle of massage oil called 'Lust' and a couple of the ever-present condoms."

"Unless there's some IcyHot in there, I'm not interested," Dean moaned.

"What I mean is that these are, well, kind of expensive for freebies," Sam hurried on. "They've only been in business since the conventions started, and they're giving away real merchandise, not just mass-made crap, for publicity purposes? How long could a small company that's just starting up sustain that kind of a loss, and remain in business?"

"Unless it's some sort of elaborate tax dodge intended to go bankrupt, my guess would be, not very," replied Dean.

"The attendants at The Toy Box's stand said that they were here to make people happy," recounted Castiel, "Or, they wanted people to make each other happy."

"If that's demonic involvement, it doesn't make sense," Sam frowned.

"Great," humphed Dean, "I thought it was people who were crazy. Turns out the demons are goin' nuts too. Fuck my life." He looked at his watch. "Can we go now?"

"No," Sam told him, "The wifi here is good. And there's more sessions this afternoon."

"I shall use the time to investigate more stands," stated Castiel.

"Don't forget to swing by that spa one, again," Sam told him with a cheerful smile, "To collect your prize – you won the spa session for two, Cas!"

"What?" Dean sat up quickly, and regretted it. "What the hell were you doin' entering a spa contest?"

"Research," replied Castiel. "And since you are feeling sore after the yoga workshop, perhaps you might consider…"

"No."

"For muscle soreness due to unaccustomed activity, I believe that massage can be therapeutic…"

"No."

"They have a mineral-infused hot tub, which is also deemed to be beneficial in cases of…"

"No."

"Dean, I think you are being stubbornly close-minded about this…"

"I am not gettin' into a hot tub with you, or bein' massaged in the same room as you, Cas! I'm just not!"

"Dean, I promise that at no point will I put my feet behind my head or my hand on your ass…"

"NO!"

* * *

Reviews are the...

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE new Pratchett book can't write reading back later


	18. Chapter 15

Haven't finished my Pratchett book yet, but Fabian the plot bunny was insistent...

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

"It appears that your query about recently started companies was legitimate," Castiel told Sam, brandishing his convention swag bag, "They are giving away merchandise in a fashion that would surely not be considered fiscally prudent." He fished out what appeared to be a bottle of wine. "I believe that this is what humans would regard as a very good red – however, production of such a beverage would require an established vineyard, not one that apparently did not exist a few months ago. Then there is this," he held up a jar. "The manufacture of this gourmet condiment would not be cheap – the ingredients are very good quality, the cocoa beans are sourced from Fair Trade suppliers, the brandy is French, and the contents are organic..."

"Uh, Cas," Sam flushed slightly as he looked at the jar, "What you have there is a jar of chocolate body paint."

Castiel cocked his head in confusion. "This would be most impractical as a cosmetic," he opined, "Parabens are more effective preservatives than alcohol. And at physiologically normal temperature, would it not melt and run?"

"I, er, think that's the idea, Cas," Sam stuttered, "Look, why don't you just put that back in your bag, and, and..." he sighed and ran out of words. "Do you have any idea where Dean went?" he asked. "He's not picking up his cell. We've gotta be on deck for the farewell function tonight – it'll be our last chance to scope out what the demons are up to, and why."

Castiel concentrated briefly. "He has returned to the small café that he visited earlier," he relayed, "Where he enjoyed the apple pie so much."

"Comfort food," snorted Sam in amusement, "The Living Sex God is a lot more human than he'll let on after all."

"I do not understand why he is annoyed at me again," Castiel admitted.

"It's the same story, Cas," Sam sighed, "He's not annoyed at you, as such – he's annoyed that he ended up doing yoga, which he thinks is for women only and that the only men who do it eat too much fibre and pick too many daisies and fellate too many dolphins, or something."

"But he is the one who pulled me away from the stand I was at, and rushed us into the workshop," Castiel pointed out, "Even as I tried to indicate to him what it was, which makes his anger irrational."

"Hello, we are talking about Dean Winchester here," Sam reminded him, "You want completely rational, go find a Vulcan. Don't worry, he'll come home when he's hungry. Or rather, when he's not hungry any more."

"Certainly, the pie at that establishment did seem to improve his mood considerably," Castiel recalled.

"That's just the effect that pie can have on Dean," Sam shook his head in bemusement. "I've wondered if people actually put crack in pastries, and I've just never noticed."

"Hi guys!" An unexpectedly cheerful voice approached them. "Are you still attached to your laptop at the hip, Samantha? We oughta get you surgery."

"Er, hi, Dean," said Sam, eyeing his brother, who was carrying a paper bag.

"Hello Dean," Castiel intoned in his usual greeting, "Are you feeling less tense now?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, looking slightly bemused, "Hey, wouldn't it be funny if that yoga actually worked on me?"

"That wouldn't be funny, Dean," Sam scoffed, "That would indicate a breakdown of reality as we know it." He winced.

"Sammy?" Dean's big brother whiskers twitched.

"It's just my arm," Sam admitted reluctantly, "It's been sore, is all."

"I am sorry that I cannot risk healing it for you," Castiel told him regretfully.

"No, you can't," Sam agreed, "We can't risk you breaking cover, and tipping off any demons that we're on their case." He peered at his laptop. "So, the farewell function kicks off tonight with drinks, and..."

"We'll drink some drinks for you, Sam," Dean specified, "You will stay the hell outta the way, while you're winged, and do your laptop dancing."

"But it'll be the last opportunity to figure out what these damned demons are up to!" protested Sam. "And it's the drawing of the Grand Prize – do you know what that means?"

"Two people get to spend a dirty night in a top end hotel?" suggested Dean. "Two people who like people who are like those people. What a waste..."

"Well, yeah, that's the prize," Sam nodded, "But I found out that all the guys who've won these prizes have been affected by the, I dunno, the curse, or whatever you want to call it. They win the prize, because their entry most impressed the judges with how much they love each other, and then within a couple of weeks, they're trying to kill each other!"

Castiel bent and peered at the screen. "Is this the list of Grand Prize winners?" he asked. "It is strange that there are no female couples on that list. The attendance here is an almost even split between men and women, but according to this, all Grand Prize winners at these conventions have been male couples."

"You think that the demons are manipulating the results to get guys only?" Sam considered that. "Yeah, possibly, but it still doesn't tell us why."

"All the more reason for you to keep researching, Sam," Dean said firmly, "While we mix at the mixer. And drink lots of free drinks. And eat lots of free food. You wouldn't like it anyway, it'll be stuff with alcohol, and deep fried pieces of dead animal on cocktail sticks."

"Surveillance of the couple who win the Grand Prize would be prudent," said Castiel, "Given the consistency of their being affected."

"See? We're gonna need you at home base to run intel," Dean insisted. "Starting with some sort of layout of the hotel once we know where they're headed – if we can get into the room and check it out before they get there, so much the better."

"Dean," Sam actually whined.

"Dean me no Deans, Sammy," Dean frowned, "You can stay put and figure out what's goin' on, then we'll deal with it. Besides, the dogs love to have somebody with them. They can do hot water bottle therapy, and snuggle up to your boo-boo and make you feel better."

"Woof woof," muttered Sam.

"Oh, c'mon, you love it," Dean gave his brother an annoying grin. "You and Lars are both snugglers. And before you ask, I got the pics to prove it."

"I hate you," griped Sam.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Back at their room, Dean certainly seemed more cheerful as the Winchester pack had dinner.

"Don't forget to leave room for the deep-fried pieces of dead animal on cocktail sticks," snarked Sam as Dean downed another slice of pizza.

"Dude, there's always room for deep-fried pieces of dead animal," his big brother smirked, breaking a crust in half and giving it to the dogs, who were watching him with the Big Brown Eyes dialled all the way up to eleven.

"That isn't good for them, Dean," chided Sam, as Lemmy and Lars received their treats politely, then downed them without really bothering to chew.

"Awwww, but it tastes so much better than kibble, right guys?" grinned Dean, tearing a small slice in half and handing it over. "In fact, if there's any wings amongst the deep-fried pieces of dead animal, I'll nab some for the boys. Tell you what, if there's any low-fat high-fibre ozone-friendly dolphin-dick-sucking fat-free taste-free veggie rolls, I'll nab some for you."

"Gee, thanks," Sam humphed, turning back to his own dinner. "But seriously, Dean, they're growing so fast, especially Lem, Doc Wooley doesn't want him to get too heavy while his bones are still maturing..."

Castiel gave the larger dog his MRI Scan Stare. "Lemmy is a healthy dog, whose skeletal structures and connective tissues are healthy and growing," he pronounced.

"See?" Dean gave an annoying smirk again, "We should probably be feeding up your runt, anyway. Whaddya think, Lars?" The smaller dog pricked his ears up in the most carefully calculated I'm-too-cute-not-to-feed expression ever seen on a canine face.

"He's not a runt!" Sam snapped. "And he's totally manipulating you." Having received his snack from Dean, Lars trotted across the room and rested his muzzle on Sam's leg, gazing up with the sort of adoration usually seen on the faces of the devout seeing visions of the Virgin Mary, or tweenies worshiping at the feet of cardboard cutouts of sparkly vampires or shirtless werewolves.

"You've had your dinner," Sam stated authoritatively, "This is mine."

Lars gazed up at him, the rays of affection practically tanning Sam's face.

"You may not be as big as Lem, but it's not good for you to grow too fast, either," Sam warned his pup.

It shouldn't have been possible for a Rottweiler's face to form into such a heartrendingly eloquent expression of unconditional love, but Lars managed it.

"Hey, I'm your Alpha!" Sam snapped, "Knock it off!"

_I would walk across hot coals for you,_ that big earnest black face said, _I would swim oceans, I would climb mountains,_ _at your command. One day I will leave my matter to save you, and I will do it gladly, because I am a Hunter's dog. I am __your__ Hunter's dog. _

"Lars, stop it!"

_You are my Alpha. _

"Lars..."

_Remember that I love you._

Carefully, Lars raised a paw, and placed it gently on Sam's leg.

"Fuck," muttered Sam, fishing a piece of chicken out of his pasta, "Here's a bit without too much sauce..."

Treat solicited, the pup's face dissolved into a satisfied grin as he snaffled up his prize.

"Owned, bro!" laughed Dean, as Sam pulled a disgusted expression at the dog, who wagged his tail happily, "You got owned by your own dog!" He went to the small ancient refrigerator in the corner of their room, and pulled out a paper bag. He instantly had both dogs' attention again. "Nuh-uh, these are too good to share with you guys," Dean told them.

"What is that?" queried Sam. "God, Dean, _more _pie? Just how much are you gonna eat?"

"These, Sammy," Dean grinned hugely, "These are two of Mervyn's pie tarts. Well, pielets, I guess you could call 'em. They're awesome!" He grinned at Castiel. "Mervyn said I should give one to you, but I know that you're sustained by your grace an' all, so, I'll eat it for you! That's just how awesome a friend I am."

"One day, you're gonna explode," grumbled Sam. "How many of these pielets have you eaten already today?"

"Three," Dean sighed happily. "The guy has mad baking skills. They're not like any pies I've ever tasted before. He uses a really interesting combo of spices – whoever heard of pepper and thyme in apple pie? But it _works_, it so works." He bit into one of the pastries, making noises of satisfaction. "Don't you dare eat the other one while I'm not here tonight," Dean warned his brother. "If I end up chasing demons around tonight, I'll need its pieish goodness afterwards."

"Dean, I wouldn't dream of getting between you and your pie," Sam shot his brother a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One), "Because I am not suicidal, and I have no wish to be trampled to death."

"I knew he was smart," Dean said breezily to Castiel as he looked at his watch. "So, it's not actually far from here – we should tool up and go."

"I don't like the idea of you going without me," Sam complained.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, I'll be with the Sheriff of Heaven. We flush these black-eyed bastards out, he can go all Angel of the Lord, Warrior of Heaven on their asses. Get his Smitey McSmiterson on. This is meant to be a chance to get out from behind the desk, and get his hands dirty after all, right, Cas?"

"If necessary, I will be completely capable of smiting any demons we encounter," Castiel reassured Sam.

"Well, I wanna go on the record as not liking it," Sam humphed.

"Fine. I wanna go on the record as not caring what you don't like," Dean countered, "You're stayin' here with that arm, Sam." Dean stood up, burped contentedly, and picked up his jacket. "So, let's get going, Cas, I don't wanna miss out on any deep-fried pieces of animal."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam treated himself to large hot chocolate from a small café at the end of the block, then settled in with his laptop. As Dean had predicted, the dogs climbed up onto he small sofa with him, snuggling against him reassuringly (although he was pretty sure that Lars would spring awake at the first sound of a drop of chocolate froth hitting the carpet).

Sam didn't like jobs where he couldn't find information, where he couldn't pull the pieces of the puzzle together. Once a fugly was identified, Dean was usually happy to go in, guns and dogs and kick-ass attitude blazing, but on this job, killing or exorcising the demons involved wouldn't be enough. They had to figure out what they were doing, in order to stop it.

Well, strictly speaking, they'd figured out what the demons were doing: they were, apparently, intent on making people as happy as possible. Making people make each other as happy as possible. With generous giveaways, some of a decidedly erotic nature, and an apparently endless supply of protection from the Lifesaver initiative, they were taking acceptance and 'free love' to a new level. They weren't just saying 'It's okay,' they were promoting it, encouraging it. It wasn't something as straightforward as temptation in order to get people to damn their own souls – they already knew that Castiel's Father just wanted people to love each other, and that the minor details of gender and what plumbing goes where between consenting adults were just not relevant.

Demons wanted people to be happy, to be loving couples, and he didn't know why, and he didn't know where it came from, and it was driving him _nuts._

He let out a huff of frustration, and shut the laptop, stretching and wincing again as a stab of pain shot up his arm. His eyes slid sideways to the refrigerator. Maybe he should just eat the pie, it seemed to work for Dean. In fact, it had pulled his brother out of a decidedly foul mood – twice.

Somewhere in his brain, a neuron yammered for his attention.

Thoughtfully, Sam took the pie out of the refrigerator, placed it on the rickety table, and stared at it.

The decoration was intricate, rings and swirls of candied fruit and petals, carefully arranged into a small, attractive masterpiece that Dean probably didn't even look at before he wolfed it down. It would take serious effort, and talent, to turn out such decorations. The guy Mervyn, who made them at his café, must've really enjoyed his job, because this pie was clearly a labour of love.

_A labour of love..._

Sam peered closely at the pie, the apple pie that had pepper and thyme in it, and was decorated with jasmine, what proved to be shreds of basil leaf, and seven carefully placed rose petals.

He started his laptop again, and within a few minutes his suspicions were confirmed. Swearing under his breath, he tried to call Dean, but it went through to messages. Swearing some more, he opened a local directory, and quickly narrowed down the source of the pie – oh, God, and Dean had eaten four of the damned things – to one of two establishments.

He took his gun and his demon-killing knife, whistled up the dogs and grabbed the car keys, hoping that his arm would let him drive safely enough to get there alive, and also hoping that Dean would check his messages. Not just because he'd be happier about tackling a possibly demonic baker with back-up, but he wanted to see his brother's face when he realised that somebody had been using pies to cast a love spell on him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean grabbed another small plate of something deep fried (he wasn't sure exactly what it was, but it was delicious) and grinned at Cas, raising his voice to make himself heard above the upbeat music and the noise of the crowd.

"I gotta admit, I like this bit of this job," he said, "Hey, keep an eye out for more of those mini wings for the dogs."

"We are supposed to be looking for demons, not wings," Castiel reminded him.

"We are, we are," protested Dean, "We're keeping an eye on proceedings, watching for demonic activity, while we blend in. You should eat something, and get a drink, dude, so you look like one more partying convention-goer."

"Very well," Castiel agreed, "But you should not drink too much. You must be alert, for when the Grand Prize is drawn."

"Yeah, well, if I'm gonna be on a demon-spotting stake-out for crap knows how long tonight, I wanna be fuelled up for it," Dean declared, eyes roving over the catering table again. "Hey, are those pigs-in-blankets? You gotta try those! Oh, look, angels-on-horseback! Bacon, dude! Don't tell me you don't have bacon in Heaven, 'cause if you don't, I never wanna go there again..."

There was a squawk of feedback as the music faded, and a PA system was switched on. A group of people who had 'committee' written all over them gathered on a small band stage, and a middle-aged man took the microphone, and called for the crowd's attention.

"Well, conventioneers," he asked, "Have you been having a good time?"

The crowd cheered him.

"Great to hear!" he beamed, "We hope that Over The Rainbow has been an opportunity for you to mix, make friends, get informed, get educated, and get happy!"

The crowd cheered again.

"As you know, the GLBT community is one that faces disadvantage, discrimination and in some places persecution within the wider society..."

He went on for a few minutes, reaffirming that GLBT people were human too, had rights too, and often had better dress sense than straight people. It was affirming and uplifting, Dean noticed, and also missing any reference to any sort of corporate sponsorship.

"But now, we know what it is that you've all been waiting for," the MC grinned, "The drawing of the Super Dooper Grand Prize Draw, which, as you all know, will offer one lucky couple a night of ecstasy, pleasure, and far too much naughty fun..."

The crowd whooped and hooted as he signalled for silence.

"...And it seems as though a lot of you were interested, because we had a lot of entries!" he went on. "And our judges have been working overtime to choose the one they think was the best, so let me hand you over to our chief judge!"

A young woman smiled, and stepped up to the microphone as the crowd applauded. "Well, conventioneers, what can I say?" she began, "It was so touching and wonderful to find out just how many of you are feeling the love here at Over the Rainbow. And, judging from some of the entries, that's not all you'd like to be feeling..."

The crowd whooped once more.

"But I don't want to keep you in suspense – unless you went to the B&D for Beginners Workshop and decided you liked it, hee hee – so let's get right to the announcement!"

"C'mon," Dean nudged Cas, "We wanna be where we can see who wins." They began to drift casually towards the stage.

"All your entries were great," she confirmed, "And we had so many stand-out entries, it was really difficult to pick a winning one, but after much debate and even a hissy fit, we managed it!" She opened the envelope she was holding. "So, congratulations to... Castiel Novak and Dean Halford, winners of our Super Dooper Grand Prize!"

* * *

... but you saw that coming a mile away already, didn't you?

Meanwhile, in the Land Of The Free:

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** www**DOT** omaha**DOT **com/article/20131106/NEWS/131109010/1685

You mean, people actually get paid for That Sort Of Thing? And all this time, I thought it was just a scary bunch over on Tumblr. O_o Excuse me, I have to go and have a little lie down and read more Pratchett to recover...

Oh, yes, please review to feed the bunny. And will somebody put on the kettle, I feel decidedly faint after reading that news article.


	19. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Dean turned to Castiel with the expression of outrage he had hitherto only used when he had been ruthlessly, unambiguously, and utterly outpranked by his little brother.

"Did you do this?" he hissed, the noise of the cheering crowd thankfully covering his words, "Did you mojo the judges?"

"I did not," Castiel was adamant, "I have taken pains to ensure that my grace remains muted – any attempt to fix the contest result would have revealed my presence to any demons hereabouts. Besides, it would be cheating, and my Father would not approve."

"You entered the contest, then, didn't you?" snapped Dean, "You and your damned investigations of every damned inappropriate stand, you had to go and..."

"I did not," Castiel cut him off, "I entered many, but not this one. The Grand Prize entry form required submissions from both members of the couple, and I knew you would not agree to fill in your part, so I did not even acquire an entry form."

"What? Then how the fuck..." a mental image of a shaggy, grinning face appeared in his mind. "I will kill him," Dean growled, "This time, I will actually kill him..."

Castiel looked around. "Dean, this is a perfect opportunity to gain direct access to the demons' scheming. We should seize it."

Dean wasn't listening. "...And since I'll be damned for fratricide anyway, I will then make a deal to get him back. So I can kill him again..."

"We must play the part of the winners who are absolutely ecstatically happy to have won this contest," Castiel insisted.

"...But _before_ I kill him, I will shave his head, and those fucking sideburns, and make him eat a piece of rare steak the size of his own head, and I'll set fire to that damned maternity shirt _while he's still wearing it._.."

"Dean!" Castiel grabbed Dean's shoulder, and gave him the Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. "This is part of the Hunt. We should be grateful that Sam had the presence of mind to enter us."

"Yeah, well, when I'm finished with him, he's gonna wish he had absence of body..."

Castiel was relentless in his pragmatism. "It is vitally important that we are now convincing as a couple, Dean. People's lives depend on us doing this. If we do not get this right, any demons watching will become suspicious, and be on their guard. Then more people will die." With that, he reached out and took Dean's hand, and began to drag the reluctant Hunter towards the stage stairs, waving to get the attention of the committee.

"It looks like we've found our winners!" gushed the woman at the microphone. The crowd cheered even more loudly, as Castiel towed Dean onto the stage. "Congratulations, Castiel and Dean!"

"Thank you," Castiel replied gravely, "We are both very happy, and very excited."

"So, looking forward to tonight, Dean?" She shoved the mic into Dean's face.

Staring out into the sea of cheering faces, he went "Meeeeep."

"He is shy in public," Castiel explained, "Really, he is overcome with excitement."

"Well, the judges were very impressed with your entry," she burbled on, "As difficult as it was to choose a winner, this one was just amazing..."

She shook out a folded piece of paper, and began to read.

"Castiel wrote, 'The thing that I see in Dean is that he is a beautiful soul. I am deeply saddened when I think that he cannot, or will not, allow himself, to see that. He puts the happiness of everyone, family friends and strangers, before his own, and I think he deserves some happiness for himself. I am privileged to know him'. That's some powerful stuff, Castiel," she said.

"It's entirely accurate," Castiel commented.

"Meeeeeeep," went Dean.

An audible chorus of 'Awwwwwwww' ran through the audience. The judging rep went on.

"And Dean wrote, 'When I first encountered Castiel, I was in a very bad place. I felt lost, and broken, and I hated what I had become. He was like an angel – he gripped me tight, and raised me from Perdition. He gave up so much for me, and had faith in me when I had none in myself. Now, I'm blessed: I have a beautiful son, I have my family back, and I hope he'll always be there to invade my personal space in his own special way'. Isn't that just wonderful?" she gushed.

The audience tittered and applauded.

"Justifiable homicide," Dean muttered through his teeth-clenching smile for Castiel's ears alone, "No jury in the world will convict me, and I know how to get rid of a corpse leaving no evidence, and by the time I'm finished with him, not even Lucifer will want to touch him..."

"So, why don't you tell us how you two met?" their host chirped, breaking into his demented revenge fantasy.

Castiel considered the question for a moment. "I was... invited to the home of the man who is practically Dean's father, where Dean thought I was an intruder, and he tried to stab me."

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

"Hey, all the best rom coms start with attempted murder!" she insisted, "What do you remember of your first encounter with Castiel, Dean?"

"Me? Uh," Dean stuttered, frozen under the lights like a rabbit in the cross-hairs, "I, uh, I, I, I... I thought his voice was way too loud and it hurt my brain just to listen to him."

The crowd laughed heartily.

"Well, clearly, from rock bottom, you could only go up," she shrugged melodramatically to more laughter. "And after this rocky start, what do your families think about you getting together?"

"We know we have the love and support of our parents," Castiel said firmly. he stared into space for a moment, then added, "And Dean's brother thinks it's adorable when we argue like an old married couple."

"He does?" queried Dean, making another mental note of yet one more transgression over which to take his little brother to task as the crowd tittered.

"And how have you enjoyed Over The Rainbow?" bubbled the irrepressibly cheerful woman.

"It has been a most informative occasion," Castiel told her, "The giveaways and prizes have been very generous, and the Lifesaver initiative is inspired. I would very much like to thank the donors and sponsors who contributed to this wonderful event."

"And so would we all!" she trilled happily, not naming any. "How about those lifeguards, huh?"

Enthusiastic whoops and catcalls came from the audience.

"Well, congrats again, guys," she smiled, handing a ceremonial key on a large decorative tag to Castiel, "Enjoy yourselves tonight!" The audience cheered once more as the music started up again. "And everybody else, too!" she shouted over the noise, "Remember to look after each other! Enjoy the party!"

A smiling organiser congratulated them, and told them to present themselves to the hotel concierge to be shown to their suite later that night.

"Do either of you have any food allergies?" he asked solicitously. "Seafood, shellfish, nuts, anything that you can't eat?"

"In my experience, Dean will eat anything that is baked into a pie," suggested Castiel, "But neither of us have any food intolerances."

"Excellent," he smiled broadly, "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen."

"... But first, I'm gonna kill his laptop, and make him watch," Dean resumed planning his terrible vengeance against his contest-entering brother, "I'm gonna drown it in his shampoo and conditioner, then I'm gonna set fire to it, then I'm gonna make him eat the smouldering remains, then I'm gonna spend the week jerking off in the shower with his shower wash, and then IeeeeEEEEEEEE!" He was cut off, eyes bugging, as Castiel grabbed him in a hug. "Personal space, Cas!" he squeaked.

"One of the convention TV crews is watching us, along with the rest of the audience," Castiel murmured in his ear. "Look ecstatically happy, Dean, right now."

With a sad keening noise, Dean made himself hug the angel back.

"This is so humiliatiiiiiing," he moaned, "I hate him so much, how could he do this to meeeee..."

The general consensus through the convention-goers was that the guys who won the Grand Prize totally deserved it; they were such a sweet couple, and as they hugged, the taller one had tears in his eyes, which was also kind of sweet, and really, everybody agreed that it was also amusing to see a bossy bottom silenced with shock.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam noiselessly let himself into the back door of the Pink Cadillac, acutely aware that he was alone, and had not had any opportunity to scope the place out. Moving silently, he slunk along the wall in the direction of cheerful humming, and peered through the gap in the half-open door.

A man well into middle age, with a build that would be described as 'voluptuous' if he was a woman – Mervyn, Sam remembered – was singing happily to himself in the small kitchen as he mixed ingredients in a large bowl. He carefully took a pinch of something from a mortar and sprinkled it into the bowl, apparently murmuring a charm as he did so. He kept mixing until there was a brief flash of silver light; then, apparently satisfied, he covered it with cling wrap and placed it in the refrigerator.

When he turned back, he had a tray of small pies in his hands. Then, with the air of a craftsman doing something that he loved, he settled at the bench to begin meticulously decorating them.

Sam was watching for an opportunity to get the drop on Mervyn when the front door of the café banged audibly. Mervyn's head shot up, his face looking confused.

"Uh, we're closed," he called, straightening up and wiping his hands on his apron, "But I open up again tomorrow from..."

The last of the sentence evaporated into a little shriek as three well-dressed people came into the small kitchen.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "There's nothing to steal – I banked the takings this afternoon," he added, just a touch smugly.

"Now, Mervyn, we're not here to rob you," a silver-haired man told him in a tone that was probably supposed to be soothing, "We're here as paying customers!"

"I just told you, we're closed," repeated Mervyn, frowning, "I'm sure I locked up out front. Did you break in? Did you break my front door? You did!"

"Take it as an indication of how keen we are on your merchandise," suggested a brunette woman, "You have a talent, Mervyn, and we just want to buy a some of your pies..."

"No!" Mervyn snapped, his voice trembling with fear and outrage, "No! You're with them, aren't you? I said no, and I mean it! Anyway," he added defiantly, "They're all gone for today."

"Oh, but surely those two there are done?" the third, a handsome young blonde man who probably had 'Twink' written all through him like lettered rock said persuasively as he gestured to the two carefully decorated pies that had been completed. "I'll make it worth your while," he added mischievously, stepping up to Mervyn and walking two fingers up his apron.

Mervyn jumped backwards. "No!" he squealed, "You're a kid! And I'm not like that! Get out!" Both his chins wobbled. "Get out of my kitchen! Or I'll, I'll, I'll..."

"You'll what, Merv?" purred the brunette dangerously, "You gonna spank us with your wooden spoon?"

The intruders laughed briefly, then their eyes bled to completely black.

Mervyn let out a shriek of fear and flung the nearest thing he had to hand, which happened to be a bowl of candied violet flowers. The brunette picked one off her sleeve with a hiss of distaste. "Well, that was just rude," she sniffed, waving a hand to fling the bowl back at Mervyn. It hit him in his considerable midriff, and bounced off, making him shriek again.

"Well, we can report that we tried to play nice," shrugged the older man, "Just kill him, and you grab the pies..."

Mervyn howled in terror as Sam burst from behind the door, preceded by a generous slosh of holy water. "Get down!" he yelled as the demons shrieked and wailed, sanctified steam hissed on contact. Weeping with fear, Mervyn crawled under his work bench.

"What the...? Hunter!" snarled the female demon, "It's a fucking Hunter!"

"Fuck," moaned the older male, "All right, kill _him_ first, _then _kill the beached whale here,_ then_ get those damned pies!"

Sam hefted his demon-killing knife, and stabbed the female in the arm. "Aaaaaaargh!" she wailed, waving her other hand to throw Sam backwards to crash into a wall, where he found himself pinned by malevolent force. "Ow! Ow! I felt that!" she glared at him, then sneered. "You wanna kill me in this meatsuit, asshole, you'll have to kill the original occupant too!" He glared right back at her. "Oh, poor little Hunter, got a moral dilemma there, do ya?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" he gasped, wincing, "What the hell could make demons willing to kill for pie?"

"We're demons, you moron," the younger male rolled his eyes, "We'll kill for _anything_."

"Demons?" Mervyn quavered from under the table. "You... you're demons?"

"Give the fat guy a cigar!" grinned the brunette. "Or maybe not, given that he's a walking heart attack already. Oh, no, wait, we're gonna kill him, so yeah, give him a cigar after all..."

"Can we get on?" sighed the older male, "We do have a schedule here. Better warn the others, too," he grunted, "If there's one Hunter on the case, there may be others. We don't want any interruptions."

"Pity," sighed the female demon, booping Sam's nose as he glared at her, "This one's kinda cute, I could have fun with him."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to play with your food?" snapped the older male. "Just kill him!"

As he spoke, a low growl sounded, barely audible. The demons paused.

Sam found a grin from somewhere. "Why isn't one of you watching for my back-up?" he rasped.

The three demons turned as one to look at the door. The younger male checked the short passageway beyond it, and smiled.

"If you're waiting for somebody to come and save you, you're out of luck," he said, "Do you really think we wouldn't notice somebody sneaking in through the door?"

"Well, yeah," Sam conceded, "But what about the wall?"

As the demons looked at each other in bemusement, Lars and Lemmy shot through the wall on either side of Sam, eyes blazing redly. They each latched onto one of the younger demons, who set up an unearthly screeching. With a gasping intake of breath, Sam fell from the wall to the floor.

The oldest demon swore, and threw back his head in preparation to leave his host.

Sam scrabbled frantically for his holy water flask, hoping that there was some left, and was wondering just how fast he could draw a demon trap in a hurry, when Mervyn stood up from under the table.

"_You can't have my pies!"_ he screamed, flinging the two decorated pastries one after the other at the bewildered demon.

They hit its meatsuit right in the face. The demon began to screech like the ones being held by the dogs, and fell to the floor, clutching at its head.

"Let 'im go, Lars!" yelled Sam, "I gotta kill 'em before they warn anybody! Leave it! Leave it!"

The young dog reluctantly let go of the demon's host. The column of black smoke predictably attempted to smoke out, but Sam was ready, and sank his knife into the disturbingly solid mass, which dissolved in a searing flash. Convincing Lemmy to let go of his demon was harder – once the larger dog got an idea into his head, getting him to change his mind was difficult – but eventually Sam convinced him to let go so the second demon could try to escape and be destroyed too.

The third demon proved to be more of a problem: it was rolling on the floor, screaming in pain, and thrashing like a beached shark. Sam eventually had to exorcise it to get it to leave its host before dispatching it.

The sudden quiet following the demons' destruction was glaringly empty.

"Are they... are they gone?" gulped Mervyn, quivering all over and holding a rolling pin like a weapon.

"Yeah, they're gone – Mervyn, is it? – they're gone. You can stand down," Sam let out a relieved sigh.

Mervyn looked at the three people on the floor. "Are they..." he couldn't bring himself to finish his question.

Sam checked pulses quickly, and smiled. "They're alive," he reassured the older man, "But they're gonna have some questions when they come around."

"Were they really demons?" asked Mervyn in a small voice. He sat down heavily on the floor. Lemmy and Lars darted in to nuzzle at him, offering whuffs of comfort.

"Yeah, they really were demons," confirmed Sam.

"You're a Hunter," Mervyn said, looking up, "Were you tracking them?"

"Actually, I was looking for you," Sam replied, "Mervyn, I gotta talk to you about your pies. You've a witch, aren't you? You've been putting love spells in them, haven't you?"

Mervyn burst into tears. "I only want to help people," he sobbed. "I only ever wanted to help!"

"You can't go putting spells on people without their knowledge!" Sam told him. "You can't just go around making people fall in love!"

"I just want them to be happy!" Mervyn sniffled. "How much do you know of the Craft?"

"Enough to figure out what you were doing," Sam answered.

"Then you'll know that you're right," Mervyn said tearfully. "You literally can't just go around 'making people fall in love'. That sort of thing is so fundamental, so powerful, so human, you can't mess with it. Not for real. If it doesn't happen, if it wasn't meant to be, you can't make it happen. All you can do is, you know, kind of give a helping hand to what's already there, just make people see a bit more clearly how much they mean to each other. It's just a prompt to accentuate the positive, and down-play the negative." He took a handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose noisily. "It's why my regulars like my stuff so much. My 'comfort food' really can offer comfort, if there's comfort to offer."

Sam looked down at Mervyn. "You asked if those demons were with 'them'. Who's 'them'? And why did demons want your pies?"

"I don't _know_!" Mervyn wailed. "There was a couple of business types, well-dressed people, who came in before the Over The Rainbow convention, said they were from the organising company, and offered me a stand for practically nothing, and when I said no thank you, they wanted to buy stock from me, but I said no, and..."

"Why did you say no?" interrupted Sam.

Mervyn blew his nose again. "There was something... not nice about them," he confided, stroking Lemmy's big earnest face as the dog nosed against him comfortingly. "I just, you know, they were polite, and well presented, and professional, but there was just something I didn't like about them. Something just… wrong. Oh, and Pixie didn't like them either, and Pixie loves everybody."

"Who's Pixie?" asked Sam suspiciously.

"My little dog," Mervyn smiled. "Of course, she's not allowed in the kitchen, but I was cleaning the tables out front and she was with me. Oh, she didn't like them one little bit, it was yap-yap-yap, and she was practically stamping her feet..."

"Dogs have good instincts for evil shit," Sam told him, _Which apparently doesn't include you_, he added in the privacy of his own head, watching Lemmy and Lars were try to comfort Mervyn. "I'm glad you went with Pixie's verdict."

"Why are demons involved with the Over The Rainbow convention?" asked Mervyn.

"I don't know!" yapped Sam, frustration leaking out of him. "That's why I'm here, trying to find out what they're up to. We think they're using the conventions to make happy gay couples murder each other for some evil purpose, but we don't know what it is – that is, me and my brother think that's what's happening, he's the one you gave your love spell pies to..."

"I shift a lot of those every day," Mervyn managed a smile. "They're very popular."

"Well, Dean's my brother. About this tall? Dark blonde hair? Leather jacket?"

Mervyn looked blank.

"Lips like Angelina Jolie?"

Mervyn looked blank.

"Eyelashes like a Jersey cow?"

Mervyn looked blank.

"He's got 'bossy bottom' written all over him."

Recognition dawned on Mervyn's face. "Oh, Dean!" he smiled. "Yes, Dean! He was back this afternoon," the older man confided. "Had another tiff with his man, poor thing, he was so upset, but I just had this feeling that it was all a storm in a teacup. I hope they've made up again?"

"Uh, well," Sam rubbed the back of his neck, "The thing is, we're here on a Hunt. He's not actually in a relationship with the guy he's been, um, hanging out with. That's just an act we've been putting on. To blend in, so we can scope out the convention."

Mervyn gazed in amusement at Sam. "Oh, honey, I hate to break it to you, but you're so straight I could use you as a ruler."

"Yeah, so I've been told," Sam sighed. He suddenly looked worried. "Oh, er, your love spells won't, you know, do anything to him, will they? You know, they won't make him suddenly start questioning his irritatingly overt heterosexuality, or anything?"

Mervyn looked thoughtful. "Well, I've never actually given one of those pies to somebody who hasn't had a bit of an upset in their love life, but I wouldn't worry. Like I said," he smiled, "Unless it's there already to encourage, my spells can't make love happen. Like sprinkling seeds on the sidewalk – if there's no fertile ground to start with, nothing can grow." His eyes filled with tears again. "So, demons are hijacking Over The Rainbow to kill people?" he quavered. "That's so… I mean, doesn't our community have enough to deal with?"

"They're demons. They do evil shit, for evil reasons," Sam sighed, eyeing the hosts the demons had taken. Two of them were stirring. "Mervyn, I hate to abandon you, but I gotta get to the post-convention party, and tell my brother and... our friend that demons are definitely involved, and on some sort of schedule. Can you look after these three?"

Mervyn wiped his eyes, and put on a smile. "Comfort food is what I do best," he stated, "I'll dish out the TLC here, you go find out what those bastards are scheming about."

"Good man." He paused. "You sure you got no idea why they wanted your pies so much? Especially since they seem to have such anti-demon properties, that third one went down screaming like he'd been dunked in holy water."

"I had no idea that would happen," Mervyn grinned sheepishly, "I was just so angry! It must be the spell. Its intent is to encourage sincerity, honesty and genuine affection – can you think of anything that would be more abhorrent to a demon?"

Sam grinned back. "I guess not." He called the dogs. "Come on, guys, we gotta go find Dean and Cas. I just wish we had some sort of lead as to where this was originating! I can't find any info about sponsors, or donors, for the conference, which might give us a clue as to what their motives are. They didn't give you a company name, did they?"

Mervyn stood up, and shuffled through a pile of paperwork. "One of them left me a card with her number, when they first visited," he offered, holding out a small pastry-smeared piece of card. "Would that help?"

Sam took the card, which was printed in simple black on white.

**WHITE Inc.**

_**Bianca LeBlanc, Procurement**_

"Well, that's real descriptive," he huffed, turning the card over.

His breath caught as he saw the logo.

Swearing under his breath, and with another hurried apology to Mervyn, he ran for the Impala with the dogs at his heels.

* * *

There you are, a nice long one (as a crossroads demon once said to Fergus McLeod). Reviews are the Delicious Pies That Double As Anti-Demon Munitions In The Kitchen Of Life! (Yeah, I've got pie on the brain. Mince pies. I've eaten too many today. Curse you Christmas pastries! Curse you! Darn you all to heck!)


End file.
